


You Can Stay As Long As You Want

by jacyevans



Series: A Better Place Since We Came Along [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Cuddling & Snuggling, Derek Hale is a Good Alpha, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Minor Isaac Lahey/Scott McCall, Minor Malia Tate/Kira Yukimura, Minor Vernon Boyd/Erica Reyes, Pack Bonding, Pack Cuddles, Pack Family, Pack Feels, Panic Attacks, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Bromance, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski are Roommates, Scott McCall is a Good Friend, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2018-05-18 21:24:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5943595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacyevans/pseuds/jacyevans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>When Derek arrives upstairs, Erica takes one look at him, rolls her eyes, and takes the bags of groceries from his hands.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“So I see Mr. 5B has arrived,” she says, leaning against the counter, shoulders shaking with laughter.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Derek hates his pack.</i>
</p><p>--</p><p>Stiles and Scott are the new tenants in Derek's apartment building. While Derek and Stiles attempt to ignore their burgeoning interest in each other, their respective packs make sure nothing will keep the two idiots from falling in love. Except maybe the faulty elevator.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [badwolfbadwolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/badwolfbadwolf/gifts).



> Written for my friend badwolfbadwolf, because she’s been having a rough couple of days, and for Secret Santa. Yes, I am aware that it is now February. This fic was inspired by her prompts _Sterek, college au, everyone’s a little older au, fluffy fic,_ and by [several](http://danielsharman.co.vu/post/96556632477/ok-then-i-am-isaac-lahey-and-i-live-in-3b-wear) [tumblr](http://seaboundandaimless.tumblr.com/post/138872978199/bootywolves-bootywolves-im-sorry-but-i-was) [posts](http://seaboundandaimless.tumblr.com/post/138836877079/the-ideal-werewolf-novel). I really, really, REALLY hope you enjoy this, bb <3
> 
> Though it may not be immediately obvious, this takes place in NY. Their apartment building is modeled off of the one that my grandparents lived in that was my second home growing up. Ah, that faulty elevator. Good times.
> 
> Thanks a ton to [dream-mancer](http://archiveofourown.org/users/riverchic1998) for the beta <3

There’s a moving van in front of Derek’s apartment building.

Derek pauses on the front steps, placing his bags of groceries on the ground at his feet – reusable, because Kira is going through one of her manic, save the Earth through the wonders of recycling phases. The sun beats down on his back, and he wipes away the sweat on his brow, dreaming of his air conditioned apartment. He hates humidity.

The driver’s side door creaks open, and Derek hears footsteps on the pavement just before his new tenant comes into view. Derek met him only once, the day he and his roommate came to view the apartment; Erica gave him the grand tour. Derek ran into him on the stairwell on their way downstairs – a mass of flailing limbs and babbling words attached to a face dotted with moles, reeking of magic.

“Stiles,” he said, face flushing pink when Erica attempted to pronounce the name written on his application and failed spectacularly, much to his friend’s immense glee. “Just call me Stiles.”

“Yo, Scotty!” Stiles yells, fumbling with the lock before throwing open the doors to the van. “Get your ass out here!”

The passenger side door opens, revealing the greatly amused friend from the stairwell, grin on his face as he shoves his phone into his back pocket. He strolls back to Stiles, leaning against the side of the van.

“Here.” Stiles grunts as he lifts a box labeled _I don’t even know what this shit is_ in a lurid shade of pink into his arms before shoving it at Scott. He hefts it onto his shoulders with ease.

Stiles drapes a duffel bag over one shoulder, eyes widening a little when he glances at Derek. The musky scent of his arousal meets Derek’s nose, just before he mutters, “Hello salty goodness,” under his breath.

Scott snorts. Stiles grins. Derek picks his bags up and walks inside as fast as his legs can carry him, calling himself an idiot all the while.

* * *

Stiles’ grin falls, morphing into a frown as he watches McDreamy turn tail and book it inside of the building. His eyes are drawn to his amazing ass, the muscles in his shoulders flexing with the weight of his bags, the –

“Stiles!” Scott shouts, and Stiles jumps, clutching his bag to his chest.

“Jesus Christ, do you have to bellow?”

“I called you like three times.” He walks up the stairs, the box in one hand while he tows a dolly with the other. “You were too busy checking out our landlord’s ass.”

“And what a fine ass it is,” Stiles says, and Scott rolls his eyes, dropping the box on the dolly and leaving both by the door as he walks back to the truck.

It takes several trips and many prayers on Stiles’ part that no one will break into the van and steal the rest of their stuff, but eventually, Scott piles the last of the boxes beside their front door.

Stiles wipes his hands together, grinning when Scott shoots him a half-hearted glare.

“You barely even did anything.”

“Why would I carry heavy objects and risk pulling my poor, weak muscles, when there is a big, strong werewolf about to do my dirty work?” Stiles ruffles Scott’s hair.

Scott ducks out from under his hand. “Is that why you keep me around? To lift heavy objects?”

“You lift things up and put them down,” Stiles says with a terrible accent. “Basically, yes.”

“Why am I friends with you again?”

“Trashy taste and a fondness for hopeless cases." Stiles winks. Scott shoves him in the shoulder and walks into the apartment, peering around corners like he hadn’t been here when Stiles did the walkthrough. The apartments haven’t been remodeled since the 1960s, but Stiles thinks that gives it a kitschy sort of charm. The walls were repainted after the last tenant moved out and the carpets and linoleum flooring replaced, but otherwise, it’s like stepping into a time capsule. The place has running water, heat, and more storage space than he could possibly know what to do with. Scott was in love from first sight of the the extra closets.

The fact that the rent is spectacularly low doesn’t hurt, either. Stiles thought Derek was kidding when he gave them the estimate and made him repeat the number again, which he did, smirking all the while. Anyone would have been stupid to turn down that offer, never mind when it was coming from Derek _I was built by the gods_ Hale.

“You’re thinking about Derek again,” Scott says flatly, and Stiles sighs, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead while pretending to swoon.

“I do declare! He has ruined me for all other men!”

“Such a drama queen,” Scott teases, turning away from the kitchen window with a grin.

“You know you love me.”

“I have no idea why.”

“Fuck you,” Stiles says without heat.

“No thanks. Save that for Derek.”

“No arguments here.” Stiles bends down to open a box labeled _Packing, how do?_ with a grin.

* * *

When Derek arrives upstairs, Erica takes one look at him, rolls her eyes, and takes the bags of groceries from his hands.

“So I see Mr. 5B has arrived,” she says, leaning against the counter, shoulders shaking with laughter.

Derek hates his pack.

“Admit it, Derek. You only gave them the apartment because the cutie with the flailing limbs batted his eyelashes at you.”

“You do have a type,” Kira says, though a lot more gently – which is why she’s his favorite.

She also isn’t just talking about his taste in men. Most of his tenants are of a similar caliber: elderly couples who Derek would never have had the heart to kick out when he took over the building, who have been living there since their children were children. College students or recent grads on their own for the first time. Single parents, new families just starting out.

While Erica might tease him, she and the rest of his pack still answer as many disgruntled complaints as he does, plunging toilets for the frazzled single mother in 1A, calling electricians and providing battery-operated heaters, lamps, and hotplates when the power went out in the middle of a snowstorm.

And now he’s taking in wayward emissaries and omegas. His mother would be so proud.

Someone claps their hands right beside his ear, reverberating like a thunderclap. Derek spins around to find Erica lowering her hands with a shit-eating grin.

“Cora was right. You _do_ spin like a ballerina when you’re startled.”

Kira laughs, covering her mouth with her hand. His cell phone rings, and Derek scowls, tugging his phone out of his pocket without even looking at the display. “What?”

“Happy to hear you’re as pleasant as ever,” Cora says, as if drawn by the sound of her name halfway across the world.

“Speak of the devil.” Kira ducks with a grin when Derek slaps at the back of her head.

“Awww, you were talking about me? I knew you missed me.”

Derek snorts, but he can’t help but smile; he does miss his sister, his entire family, like an ache in his chest that never really goes away. Most days, he’s able to ignore it. The days that he can’t, he surrounds himself with his pack; allows the wolf to take over, lays his head in Kira’s lap, and lets her run her fingers through his fur.

“How’s Amsterdam?” Derek cocks his hip against the doorframe. “Or is it Athens this month?”

“Rome actually. The food. Derek, the _food._ ” Cora sighs dramatically. “I swear, I’m going to kidnap one of the kitchen boys and force them to be my personal chef.”

“I’m sure food is all you’re thinking about,” Derek says dryly; he can see the wolfish grin Cora is giving him in his mind’s eye.

“Two for the price of one.” Derek groans; Cora laughs.

“Such a prude,” she teases, “Although I hear that might be changing. How is your 5B lover boy, anyway?”

Erica cackles, toppling off of the counter.

Derek hangs up.

Two days later, he runs into Stiles in the lobby, grumbling at the elevator like it personally offended him.

“Come on,” he mutters, kicking the door with the toe of his battered, black Chucks.

“I don’t think you’re going to get a response,” Derek says, grinning when Stiles jumps a foot in the air and spins around in what would have been a stunning display of acrobatics had he not tripped over his bags. Derek shoots a hand out to grab his shoulder, stopping his descent towards the floor.

“Holy shit,” Stiles says as he rights himself. “You can’t sneak up on a person like that! I could have a heart condition! I could have _died!_ ”

“You wouldn’t have died,” Derek says, doing his level best to not roll his eyes. “There’s a retired doctor in 4C.”

“Ha fucking ha. Wolf’s got jokes.” Stiles jerks his thumb towards the elevator. “Elevator’s broken.”

Derek heaves a sigh, because of course it was. The damn thing broke at least once a month. The last time, the repairman joked that he didn’t need any other clients because Derek alone could fuel his income.

“I’ll put in a call to the repair company.” He goes to the small table against the wall, pulling out an Out-of-Order sign and a roll of packing tape.

“Wow. Laminated and everything.” Stiles smirks. Derek ignores him in favor of ripping off a piece of tape with his teeth. Stiles’ heart skips a beat. “Should I be worried?”

“Probably.” He tosses the tape back into the drawer and shuts it with his hip, then starts grabbing Stiles’ bags.

“Are you planning on paying the repair guy in food?” Stiles’ lips twitch into a smile that morphs into a full-blown grin when Derek flushes to the tips of his ears.

“Do you need help with your bags or not?” Derek snaps, like it’s a hardship. Like he doesn’t want to spend more time with Stiles and his annoying grin and infectious laugh.

“ _Someone’s_ grumpy,” he says, grabbing the remaining two bags. He leads Derek up the stairs, complaining all the while. Stiles spins his key in the lock and the door opens wide.

As Derek follows him over the threshold, warmth tingles down his spine. He drops the bags in the kitchen then turns, glancing up over the front door. A silver horseshoe hangs above the entryway, with the wolf runes for protection and peace etched on either side.

Derek gives the air a discrete sniff; the entire apartment smells faintly of sage and cedar: a protection spell, no doubt woven into the doorways and windowpanes.

“Sorry about that,” Stiles says as he starts to empty the bags. “I threw all the windows open earlier, but I couldn’t really get rid of the smell.”

Derek shrugs. He hasn’t been around any magic users since his mother’s emissary, but Stiles is nothing like Deaton, warm where Deaton was mysterious and aloof, smelling of cinnamon and wet grass, and the electric, clean scent of ozone.

Stiles grins, rolling up his sleeves to his elbows as he bends down to start unpacking the bags. He separates food that has to go in the fridge from food that doesn’t on the tiny table wedged against the wall. A black fox tattoo curls around his left wrist, the tail winding up his forearm in a smoky blur of shaded blues and greys, swirling twice just below the crease of his elbow. The tiny red and blue hummingbird on his other wrist seems out of place in comparison. Derek stares, trying to parse out the meanings.

“You just gonna stand there, or are you going to help me unpack the bags?” Stiles grins like he knows exactly what Derek is thinking.

Derek flushes and glares but starts unpacking.

* * *

Within a week, Stiles questions his earlier assessment about his apartment being a steal.

The front door clicks open then closed, and a moment later, Scott throws himself down onto the couch, feet almost smacking Stiles in the nose as he mashes his face in the cushions.

“Rough day?” he asks around the pencil between his teeth; he frowns down at the textbook in his lap. He fucking hates math, but if he doesn’t pass this class this time around, no way will he have his degree by the end of the year. That and his father has made it abundantly clear that in Stiles’ case, the third time will not be the charm unless he pays for the credits himself.

Scott groans. “I hate school.”

“Should have thought of that before you decided to be a vet,” Stiles says, patting the back of his calf.

Scott groans even louder.

Stiles sighs and takes the pencil out of his mouth, using it as a placeholder. He lets the book fall closed. “Wanna play Halo in our pajamas and eat pizza until we can’t move?”

Scott perks up. He lifts his face from the cushion. “Hawaiian?”

Stiles’ entire face wrinkles up. “I still can’t believe you like that crap.”

“’S good,” Scott grumbles, pouting like a grumpy puppy.

Stiles pats his leg again. “Whatever you say, buddy.”

Stiles makes good on his promise; they eat their way through two large, greasy pizzas and spend the night screaming at the television, jostling each other with elbows and knees as they volley for the lead.

Then Stiles makes a particularly difficult shot, while Scott’s character slams into a wall.

“I’m the king of the world!” He throws up victory arms and yelps as Scott tackles him, the two of them eventually falling asleep together in a tangle of limbs on the floor – which is where he wakes up the next morning when Scott screams, flailing elbow banging into the grey milk crates currently acting as their coffee table.

He groans, tugging his arm into his chest and scrambling to his feet, grabs his mountain ash-infused baseball bat from its spot in the corner and skids into the bathroom.

Where Scott lies on the floor in the tub, thankfully hidden by the shower curtain now dangling off of half the hooks. He splutters, wicking the water from his face as he looks at Stiles upside down. “We have no hot water.”

 _“Dude.”_ Stiles drops his arm, the tip of the bat clanging against the floor. “I thought someone _killed_ you.”

Scott starts to push himself up and Stiles raises his free hand to shield his eyes. “Put that shit away.”

“Like you haven’t seen it before.”

“Not the point, bro.” Stiles peeks through his fingers, dropping his hand when he sees the towel wrapped around Scott’s waist.

A smirk blossoms on his face. “Make yourself useful and go tell Derek we need hot water.”

Stiles grins, slow and maniacal. “With pleasure.”

“Maybe lose the serial killer grin.”

“I’ll serial killer your face!”

“That doesn’t even make any sense!”

Stiles tosses a double fingered salute over his shoulder. He grins at the sound of Scott sighing heavily at his retreating back. He could easily call Derek, let him know what’s going on, but Derek only lives one floor up and said he and his pack have an open-door policy when it comes to issues with the apartment. Who is Stiles to deny such an open opportunity?

The layout of all of the floors of the building is exactly the same, with apartments on either side of the stairwell, the walls painted an off-white, doors a chrome black with gold numbers. Stiles hangs a left to apartment 6D, where a sign that says _It’s bigger on the inside_ hangs askew. Stiles grins. Geek humor. His kind of people.

The door is thrown open before he has a chance to do much but press his knuckles to the door. The woman who answers is tall, blonde, and built like a supermodel, hair in loose curls thrown carelessly over her shoulder. She’s wearing a t-shirt several sizes too big, and it takes a couple of long, embarrassing moments for him to recognize her as Erica.

She eyes him slowly up and down, giving new meaning to the term undress him with her eyes.

“Hello gorgeous,” she practically purrs, “How can I help you?”

Stiles clears his throat. “Hi – I’m looking for Derek?”

“I’ll bet you are." Her tongue darts out to lick at her bottom lip. Stiles lets out a tiny _meep_ of terror.

A loud, exasperated sigh sounds from behind Erica, just before a tiny Asian girl with long, black hair comes into view. A tattoo of a triskele stands out against the skin of her left bicep. “Quit it, Erica. Derek gets cranky when you torture the tenants.” She freezes when she sees Stiles, eyes going a bit wide. “Hi!” she says, a little too loudly. “I’m Kira!”

“Hi?” Stiles says, confused by this entire exchange. He shakes his head. “Is Derek around? I don’t have any hot water –“

“It’s a problem throughout the building,” Derek says, coming up from behind them. Kira hops back a step. Erica glares, like he’s ruined all of her fun. “I called the plumber. He’s making an emergency visit in the morning.” He does a double take, glancing at Erica, and sighs. “Don’t you own any pants?”

“Yes.”

Derek raises his eyebrows; Derek’s eyebrows are very expressive. Stiles bets he could have an entire conversation just with Derek’s eyebrows.

“What?” she asks, shrugging.

“Could you maybe put some _on?_ ” He asks in the tone of voice relegated for parents of small children quickly losing their patience. Or to Stiles from his father, at any age.

“You only asked me if I owned any, Derek. You need to be specific about these things.” Erica pats him on the shoulder. Stiles bites back a snort.

Derek rolls his eyes and steers Stiles away from the apartment with a hand on his shoulder. His skin tingles with the contact through his flannel.

"Sorry about them," Derek says, walking with Stiles down the hall. "They're a bit--"

"Crazy?" Stiles offers, but he smiles, amused over the entire display.

Derek huffs a laugh. "That sounds about right."

"I heard that!" Erica shouts, and Derek grimaces, ushering Stiles down the stairs and tugging the door shut firmly behind him.

Two days later, the faucet in the kitchen starts leaking, a steady _drip, drip, drip_ that leaves Scott threatening to take a sledgehammer to the sink if it means he can get some sleep. Stiles calls Derek – on the phone this time, because he is man enough to admit that Erica absolutely terrifies him.

Derek shows up in an old, soft looking Henley with a box of tools in his hand. When he crawls on his back under the sink, his shirt rides up, and Stiles almost swallows his tongue at the strip of skin showing, covered in hair with a darker trail leading under the waistband of his pants. Stiles smacks his head against the doorway in his haste to leave. Scott laughs so hard, he chokes.

Another week later, and he’s on his way home from the Laundromat with a month's worth of his and Scott’s clothes in two laundry bags. He hits the button for the elevator and waits.

The light doesn’t turn red.

Stiles hits its again. And again. He keeps hitting it at lightning speed, then slams the heel of his hand on the wall with a groan.

“You should get used to that,” a voice says from his back, making Stiles jump and turn around. A woman with dirty blonde hair looks on with amusement.

“Sorry,” she says, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Its fine. Or it will be, when I can breathe again.”

She grins, and it’s a little scary, honestly. “I’m Malia.” She nods at Stiles’ bags. “Need some help with those?”

“Stiles.” He points to himself. “Sure, but they’re kind of heavy, you might want to – okay,” he says as she hefts the heavier bag onto her shoulder with little effort.

Stiles’ heart starts pounding at the top of the second stairwell. By the time he gets to the fifth floor, he’s so out of breath, he wishes Scott still had an inhaler lying around.

“You okay there?” Malia asks. She’s not even winded.

“Yeah,” Stiles wheezes; he presses his hand to his side as he gets the door open. “Yeah, I’m great.”

Malia hovers in the doorway, arms folded across her chest so he catches sight of the tiny triskele tattooed on her right wrist, same as the one on Kira’s arm. Stiles drops his keys on the counter, snorting at the message left on the fridge on a neon green post-it. _I’M MAKING EGGS FOR BREAKFAST,_ it reads in Scott’s messy scrawl. _THOSE THINGS THAT COME IN CARTONS. WHICH WE DO NOT HAVE._ Stiles shakes his head, tossing it into the bin. He and Scott have been living together long enough that it’s become a game of who can leave the most passive aggressive note when the food runs out before the other person actually gets aggressive.

“Boyfriend making you breakfast in bed?”

Stiles rolls his eyes and grabs a bottle of water from the fridge, gulping down half. The assumptions about him and Scott are old hat by now, have been commonplace since they were teenagers. Apparently, two fifteen-year-old boys couldn’t share clothes without everyone and their mother thinking they were boning. And that was before the bite turned Scott into a furry, fanged cuddle machine. Hard to hold onto any inhibitions when your best friend is a werewolf incapable of understanding things like personal space.

Not that Stiles minds. Not even a little. Stiles is a master cuddler.

He wipes his hand across his mouth. “We’re not dating. We’re practically brothers.”

“So, you’re straight.” She narrows her eyes, somehow managing to wrinkle her nose at the same time.

Stiles sighs, putting the bottle down on the counter. “Bi, but—“

“Single?”

“Yes, but what does that have to do with –“

“Perfect! I’ll tell Derek. Nice to finally meet you, Stiles.” Malia’s smile stretches across her face as she flounces out of the apartment.

Stiles’ mouth hangs open for a moment before he manages to regain control of his faculties, skidding into the hall. “Wait – what?” He shouts after her. “Why – _what?”_

“Keep it down, kid!” His next door neighbor yells, and Stiles huffs and gives the closed door the finger. He scrubs the back of his hand across his forehead, spends a full minute trying to figure out exactly what the fuck just happened, then gives up.

“I can’t even,” he mutters to himself, retreating inside.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the lovely [thatworldinverted](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thatworldinverted/pseuds/thatworldinverted) for the beta! <3

“Yo bossman,” Malia says, kicking the door shut with her shoe, “The elevator is broken again.”

Derek doesn’t bother looking up from the book in his lap. “What else is new?”

Boyd snorts from where he and Isaac are lifting weights across the room.

Malia throws herself down onto the couch and drapes her legs across Derek’s lap, nudging him in the hip with her sneakered foot when he doesn’t acknowledge her presence. “How about the fact that you missed an open opportunity to play knight in shining armor to 5B’s blushing damsel?”

Derek rolls his eyes but sinks down a little lower in his seat. His pack’s ability to read him like an open book continues to drive him all manner of crazy.

“Awww. Does ickle Der Bear have a crush?” She reminds him so much of Cora sometimes that it is truly, truly terrifying. “Don’t worry, I won’t steal your thunder. But if you don’t make a move soon, someone else will. Lord knows if I wasn’t already spoken for, I would tap that.”

“Only if I can be in the middle,” Kira says, drawing wide-eyed stares from Isaac and Boyd. For all that Kira blushes and stammers over the mere mention of sex, she has a mischievous streak that rivals the rest of his pack.

Damn fox spirits.

She throws herself across Malia’s lap. “Hey.”

“Hey, baby. Miss me?”

Kira grins, rubbing noses before she kisses Malia firmly. Isaac retches.

“You’re just jealous you’re not getting any,” Erica says as she exits the bathroom, tugging a t-shirt over her head. She winds up her towel and slaps at Isaac’s ass. Isaac yelps, transforming mid-jump as he tackles Erica to the ground, clothes splitting every which way. Erica laughs, batting at his paws. She shoves his muzzle away when he nips at her chin.

“I’m not paying for your new sneakers. Again,” Derek says, even though they all know he’s lying. Though he does wish his pack had at least a modicum of self-control.

Isaac rolls off of Erica and shakes himself, tongue lolling out of his mouth. He prances over to Derek, sitting down at his feet, one ear quirked like an overgrown puppy. He turns his head to the door, barks, then turns back to Derek with a wolf grin.

“The sun isn’t even down yet,” Derek argues. A wet towel smacks him in the face.

“Come on, alpha,” Erica says. She crouches down to ruffle her fingers through Isaac’s fur. “Look at this face.”

Isaac lies down with his head on his front paws, whining softly.

“You can wait another hour,” Derek says; Isaac crawls closer, laying his head in Derek’s lap, eyes wide.

Let it never be said that his pack aren’t a bunch of emotionally manipulative shits. Derek sighs, shutting his book and placing it on the side table. “Alright, alright, fine. Let me grab my keys.”

“Sucker,” Malia says, but with a fond smile as she leans down to scratch Isaac under his chin.

Erica at least tugs on a pair of shorts and flip flops rather than strolling out the door half-naked; while nudity might be no point of conversation among wolf packs, there were still enough humans in the building that Derek would rather his pack be discrete. Or at least somewhat discrete, as Isaac doesn’t seem to plan on shedding his fur any time soon. Derek grabs a change of clothes for him, just in case.

They take the stairs two at a time, making enough noise that Derek cringes, imagining the complaints he will no doubt have waiting for him on his phone tonight. The elevator opens as the pack dumps out onto the main floor. 

The Marshall’s little girl adores Isaac, repeatedly asks for him when Derek passes she and her parents in the hallway. Neither of them come from towns with heavy supernatural populations, so it took some time to convince them that the only thing Melinda was in danger of when Isaac was a wolf was an overabundance of cuddles.

“’Sac!” she says, stretching out her arms from where she sits in her stroller, yanking at the straps in her quest to reach Isaac.

“Sit down, Melinda, you know the rules,” Lori says, and her daughter sits back, bouncing in her seat. Her stuffed bunny slips from her fingers, and Isaac trots over, snapping it up in his teeth and dropping it back into her lap before the waterworks even have a chance to start. He sits next to the stroller, submitting to Melinda’s kisses and fur tugging with ease.

Lori leans most of her weight against the stroller, wiping away the sweat on her brow. “Honestly, I’m happy for the reprieve.”

“Baby still keeping you up at night?” Derek asks, while the rest of his pack heads out the front door, shoving each other good-naturedly.

She pats at her protruding belly with her right hand. The baby shifts, heartbeat strong. “Pretty sure this one is a dancer, because she’s been tappin’ at my kidneys for the last week.”

Derek chuckles. Melinda gnaws on Isaac’s ear, stuffed bunny held tight in her tiny fist. “She’s due soon, isn’t she?”

“Section is scheduled for four weeks from today, thank Christ.”

“Pretty sure she’s going to come early.”

Melinda raises an eyebrow. “You a doctor now, Alpha Hale?”

“My mother delivered most of the cubs in my pack. She taught me the signs.” He can scent the shift in her hormones, the way her sweat smells a little more bitter; her belly’s already dropping. 

“Your mother’s a midwife?”

“Not exactly.” Delivering a werewolf cub is hard on even another wolf’s body. Human doctors might have the technology, but they didn’t have a were’s eyes or nose, or their reflexes. Their hospitals smelled sterile and musty, not comforting like the smell of pack ingrained into a nest of blankets. 

Derek watched his aunt give birth to his cousin, handed his mother towels and water while Laura wiped the sweat from her brow until the pup came, yellow eyed and howling, into the world. It’s not an image he’s ever going to forget. 

He swallows hard. Isaac lets out a little whine, sensing his distress. “She was the alpha.”

Lori’s brow furrows, but she sighs before she can make the rest of her questions known. “Melinda Grace, we don’t eat Isaac’s ears.”

“Ear, ear, ear, ear!” Melinda parrots, clapping her hands with delight. She squeals when Isaac licks her nose.

“We need to get going anyway,” Derek says; the sun is already setting, bathing the hallway in an orange glow. He wants to get to the park before the crowds descend. “Come on, pup.”

“Bye, wolfie!” Melinda shouts as she and Lori disappear in the opposite direction.

Derek rubs over Isaac’s ear; it’s covered in baby spit. He makes a face, wiping his fingers on his pants leg. “And you call me a soft touch.”

Isaac nips at his fingers and he huffs a laugh.

The pack is already waiting for him around the corner, where Malia impatiently drums her hands against the steering wheel of her car. While it isn’t at all uncommon to see wolves on the subway during the full moon, human children have a habit of trying to touch anything remotely dog-shaped without asking, despite the signs posted all over the subway stations reminding parents of the full moon. Tonight, Derek just isn't in the mood.

Erica sits in the driver’s seat of Derek’s Camaro, twirling his keys around her finger. Derek snatches them from her hand and opens the door so Isaac can hop into the back while Erica pouts, climbing over the console into the passenger seat.

Derek has been coming to Central Park for years, since he and Laura first moved to New York twelve years ago - give or take a couple of months after his sister died. Every full moon, the park opens at dusk to any local packs who need somewhere to run. 

He ignores the usual group of protesters screaming their slander, picket signs reading things like _Protect Our Children!_ and, worse still, _Monsters Should Be Caged!_ Derek bares his teeth, herding his pack past the parade of police officers standing sentry at the entrance, and quickly heads for one of the temporary tents set up on the Great Lawn. He pushes aside the flap, nodding at the group of betas congregating near the entrance, no doubt waiting for their alpha to finish changing inside. He allows the rest of his pack to enter first before following, then stops short.

“Stiles,” Derek says, surprised, while the rest of the pack mocks him, shoving shoes and clothing into the portable lockers set up on either side of the tent. An alpha standing across from them glances at a man who must be her emissary - the faint scent of ozone lingers in Derek's nose. The two of them chuckle under their breath. She shudders into her wolf shape, brown fur streaked with grey; her emissary touches her between her shoulders, gently guiding her towards the door.

“What are you doing here?” Derek asks Stiles as he holds the flap of the tent aside, allowing them to pass.

“Spending the full moon with my pack.”

Scott waves from across the tent, almost falling over as he kicks off his shoes. Isaac rushes to his aid, yanking on Scott’s belt with his teeth. Derek startles as one of Scott’s hands drops to Isaac’s back while he rights himself, but Isaac simply noses at his hip and steps away. 

Scott shoots him a mega-watt grin. “Thanks, man,” he says, and Isaac ducks his head, embarrassed. 

“Interesting,” Malia says, grinning. Kira rolls her eyes.

Derek lets the pack make their own introductions, moving out of the way and into the corner where he can keep an eye on everyone at once.

Kira asks, “You’re running with us, right?” and Scott glances at Stiles, both of them hesitant and unsure.

Erica answers before Derek can get a word in edgewise, as she always does. “Of course they are.”

Boyd raises an eyebrow at Scott. “That is, if you think you can keep up.”

Scott’s eyes narrow at the challenge. “You’re on,” he says, then it’s a race to see which one of them can strip the fastest while the rest of the pack goads them on, Isaac weaving around their legs looking like a giant puppy rather than a werewolf. He loses his footing, legs going every which way when Scott loses his pants. Kira catches him around the scruff with a grin. Isaac growls softly, shaking himself out.

Stiles’ smile falls, and Derek pauses in the middle of tugging off his shirt. “Is everything okay?”

“No – I mean, yes, but – you don’t mind, do you?”

Derek frowns. “Mind what?”

“That we run with your pack.”

“It’s a big park, Stiles,” Derek says dryly and Stiles rolls his eyes, shoving him lightly in the shoulder. 

“Jackass. I mean – is it okay if we run _with_ your pack?”

Derek glances over his shoulder, where Scott has already shed his skin for fur, yellow eyes gleaming as he lopes out of the tent. Erica runs after him; she shifts mid-step, making it look effortless, like she was born a wolf instead of bitten. Her white coat stands out against the reddish-brown of Scott’s, and he’s more than a head taller and far bulkier, but he still allows her to take him to the ground. The two of them roll around like a pair of pups. Kira giggles, snapping photos all the while. His pack feels happy, easily accepting Scott and Stiles as one of their own, and that feeling flows through him, down the bonds with his betas, making him feel lighter than he has since before his parents died. He's never connected with someone as quickly as he has with Stiles, and even Scott. The thought terrifies him.

“It’s no big deal,” Stiles says, dragging Derek’s eyes back to him. He reeks of disappointment. “We can find somewhere else to go.”

Derek blinks. In the few precious moments it takes to realize that Stiles confused his hesitation for rejection, Stiles turns away. Derek grabs his shoulder. “No!” Stiles turns, huffing an annoyed breath. “I mean – I’m fine with it.”

“Really?” Stiles asks, sarcasm masking the hope underneath.

Derek nods. “Of course. Both of you are welcome, but –“

“What?” 

Derek rakes his eyes from Stiles’ sneakered feet to the wind-blown hair on his head. Stiles shudders. “Can _you_ keep up?”

Stiles’ eyes widen, before he scowls, folding his arms over his chest. Malia cackles, little barks of laughter that Derek would never, on pain of death, admit sound hilarious coming from a coyote’s mouth.

“Oh yeah, laugh it up now, coyote girl,” Stiles says, still pouting, but the way he narrows his eyes promises retribution. Derek smirks. Malia yawns, mouth opening wide, tongue rolling against her teeth.

Kira grins down at Malia and says, “Catch me if you can,” before darting out of the open tent, the aura of her fox glowing bright and orange around her body. Malia growls then follows after. 

Stiles jumps when the flap of the tent flies backwards, smacking him in the face. “She’s a kitsune,” Derek says, wiggling his jeans down his legs.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, voice muffled as he attempts to untangle himself from the tent, “I can see--” He stops short, making a bitten off whimper of a sound. 

Derek pauses as he tugs the waistband of his briefs down his legs. “What?”

“Nothing!” Stiles says, voice cracking. He keeps his eyes firmly over Derek’s shoulder. “Nothing at all!” 

Derek continues to strip, smirking at the flush growing darker across Stiles’ cheeks, creeping down his neck. He closes his eyes and lets the change overtake him, the pain as his bones rearrange themselves its own sort of pleasure. His eyesight sharpens, ears picking up every sound in the meadow - a woman talking a pup through the change in soft, encouraging tones; packs howling at each other; grass and leaves crunching underfoot with every shift of Derek’s feet; heartbeat after heartbeat pounding in his ears - he filters them all out until only one remains, beating slightly faster than the others.

He looks up at Stiles, whose scent is almost overpowering in this form - somehow both spicy and earthy, and Derek wants to drown himself in it. 

Stiles stares down at him with wide eyes. “Whoa,” he breathes out, “You’re _huge._ ” 

Derek preens, ears perking up at the sound of Isaac’s howl, followed by one he doesn’t recognize.

“Scott,” Stiles says, looking out with a smile that’s somehow both fond and sad all at once. “Wanna go see what sorts of trouble our packs have gotten themselves into?”

Stiles laughs as Derek tugs on his jeans in answer, dragging him out into the park.

* * *

Being _with _another pack rather than just surrounded by them is… nice.__

____

____

He hasn't been this attached to a pack for years, not since his mother died. Even during his emissary training, he always kept a careful distance, respectful of the rest of the pack - they weren't _his._ Not like Scott. Stiles knows Scott craves a pack - the steadiness of an alpha, other wolves to run with on full moons. So seeing him with Derek’s pack, watching him take off down the street with Erica and Isaac hot on his heels… something in his chest unwinds, a knot years in the making.

Isaac entices Scott into a game of tag, tackles him to the ground then rolls to his feet and takes off across the green. Scott turns back to Stiles, takes a step forward.

“Go,” Stiles says, wagging his hands. “Shoo.”

Scott lies down, looking at Stiles with big, sad puppy eyes.

“Dude, seriously. We’ll chill later. Go on, you big doof.”

Scott hesitates another moment, then jumps to his feet at the sound of Boyd howling. Derek’s ears twitch as he takes off running. Scott follows close on his heels.

Stiles’ smile crumbles, and he sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair. As happy as he is that Scott is finally getting what he wants, he can’t help but feel a little left out. The two of them have always been a unit. Where one goes, the other follows, even if its halfway across the country and into an apartment building with the worst elevator known to man.

A cold nose presses against his hip, and Stiles looks down to find Derek staring up at him, red eyes a beacon in the dark.

“Hey, big guy,” he says, grinning when Derek huffs. “Your eyebrows are as expressive as a wolf as they are when you’re human-shaped. That’s hilarious.”

Derek nips at his hand. Stiles laughs. “Seriously, don’t you want to go play with your pups?”

Derek brushes against his side in answer.

Stiles sighs as the two of them walk further into the park, keeping to the sidewalks and walkways. “Scott and I usually don’t come out here, you know,” he says, watching as a pack of pups runs by in the street, snapping and biting at each other’s heels. “Our first full moon in NY, Scotty begged me to go, but…” Stiles swallows; he doesn’t like to think about that night. Most packs were welcoming, if aloof, keeping to themselves while offering a smile and a nod or a wave.

At best, the others ignored Scott entirely, growling at his advances or running in the other direction. At worst… well. The human media weren’t the only ones with misconceptions about omegas. Other wolves could be downright cruel.

So he and Scott avoid the big full moon outing, choosing instead to stay in the courtyard of their building or head to a local park, but it’s harder to get permits there, to convince whatever idiot government official is on duty that Scott isn’t a feral omega, that he and Stiles are _pack_ , in every sense of the word. That he’s _safe._

Most times, everything goes smoothly, but sometimes…

Those are the nights Scott stays in their apartment, whining at the howling of other packs, when he curls around Stiles and refuses to be away from him for days. The nights Stiles wishes his mother were still alive to tell him what to do to make everything okay.

“Try explaining to your professors you can’t come to class because your werewolf roommate has separation anxiety,” Stiles says, kicking at a rock in the dirt. “Surprisingly, it worked. Twice.” A fond smile tugs across his face without his consent. “I’m glad we came this time, though.”

Derek growls, then licks at Stiles’ fingers, much to his surprise. He huffs a laugh. “My knight in furry armor,” he drawls, and Derek trips over his own paws, letting out a yelp of surprise that makes Stiles practically falls over laughing, just before Derek bowls him over into the grass. A woman passing with a baby carriage chuckles and shakes her head.

It’s not until they’re sitting down on a nearby bench that Stiles realizes he’s been absentmindedly running his fingers through Derek’s fur. He stills. Derek raises his head from where it’s been resting on Stiles’ knee, gazing at him in question.

“Sorry, dude,” Stiles says, pulling his hand away slowly. “I didn’t think—“

Derek butts his head against Stiles’ hand and lets out a happy rumble of a sound when Stiles resumes his petting.

Stiles grins. “Scott’s a cuddler, too, when he’s a wolf.” He scratches Derek between the ears, drags a finger through the fur leading down his nose. “You know, you’re pretty adorable like this.”

Derek sneezes all over his face.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry for the delay. My grandfather died last August, I started grad school a week later, and my depression came back with a vengeance, bringing along his old friend anxiety. Any tiny bits of creative energy I could scrounge up needed to go towards my school work. I finally just sat down last week and said, "I'm doing this." And so, to my own surprise, I did.
> 
> This chapter took a few twists and turns even I didn't expect, but I let the characters talk to me, and just write what they want. It's also twice as long as both my other chapters. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this as much as I did writing it. If you've been here since the beginning, thanks for sticking around. If you're new here, welcome to the insanity.
> 
> Happy birthday, badwolfbadwolf! Hope this lives up to your expectations, and sorry for such a long wait <3
> 
> Betaed by the ever-wonderful thatworldinverted <3

Derek can’t remember the last time he found a full moon this enjoyable. He’s disappointed to see it end, but his pack have piled up in one exhausted, furry heap on the lawn. Scott, equally exhausted but radiating happiness, wriggles his way into Stiles’ lap.

Erica follows Derek back to the tent, shifting back to human and shaking out her hair, making a face when a leaf falls out. She snaps her teeth at Derek when he laughs. The two of them usually drive back with Boyd in the third car, but when Derek sticks his head out of the tent, he’s shocked to find him lying on Stiles’ other side with his head in Stiles’ lap.

Derek whistles. “Boyd.”

Boyd twitches but doesn’t move. Derek heaves a sigh, tugging on his pants and trudging back across the grass. Boyd opens one eye to stare at Derek then promptly shuts it.

“Aw, don’t be such a sourwolf,” Stiles says, and Derek glares. “I’ll drive the car, if it’s such a big deal.” Scott perks up.

“Don’t you have to drive your own car?”

Stiles shrugs, stretching as he stands, arms over his head. Derek looks away, which of course means he’s looking at Boyd, who gives him a toothy grin. “We took the subway.” He holds out his hands for the keys. Derek heaves a put-upon sigh, then tosses them over.

He doesn’t know what he expects when his pack gets home from the full moon run, but it isn’t for Stiles to invite them all up to his apartment, and for Isaac to be the first one bolting up the stairs with Scott at his heels.

The pack collapses on the living room floor, half of them still in their fur, the other half tugging on borrowed t-shirts and sleep pants before snuggling back down. 

Derek expects to have difficulty falling asleep in someone else’s den, but his eyes droop as soon as he settles on the floor, watching over his pack. He glances over to the opposite end of the pile, where Stiles shoots him a smile, soft and fond. There’s something comforting about Stiles’ presence, an air about him that makes Derek feel… safe. And safe is something he hasn’t felt in a long, long time. 

He wakes the next morning, grumbling and rubbing at his eyes. There’s laughter coming from somewhere in the apartment, and when he finally opens his eyes, he’s surprised to find that the rest of his pack is already up and about. Usually, he’s the first person awake.

He closes his eyes, focusing with his other senses, locating the rest of his pack. Scott and Isaac are sitting at one end of the couch, bonding over veterinary school versus nursing and their shared love of Hawaiian pizza and Starbucks Frappuccinos. They fell asleep last night still in their fur and practically on top of each other. Derek has never seen Isaac take to anyone who isn’t pack the way he’s taken to Scott. 

He focuses his hearing further and makes out Erica at the other end of the apartment talking superhero movies with Stiles. He squawks at her insistence that Christian Bale is the best Batman, and starts in on a tirade of needing to educate her on --

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Kira says, snapping him out of his eavesdropping, and he tilts his head back, looking at her upside down. She holds out a cup of coffee. “Fresh from the Stilinski-McCall kitchen.”

Derek sits up and takes the cup with a grunt of thanks, pleasantly surprised by the taste that rolls over his tongue, just the right combination of sweet and strong. He takes a discrete sniff of the air and smells bacon, eggs and - he sniffs again - pancakes on the griddle.

“Stiles is cooking us breakfast,” Boyd says; he’s migrated to the other end of the couch, where Malia, still a coyote, has all but thrown herself across his lap. Her back leg twitches, kicking Isaac in the side. He scratches her scalp without looking away from Scott, and she lets out a low rumble of a growl.

Derek pushes to his feet and heads to the kitchen. Erica is seated on the ancient step stool next to the window, but she dashes forwards to steal a piece of bacon straight from the griddle. Stiles slaps her hand away with the fork in his hand. She’s wearing an overlarge t-shirt - Derek’s t-shirt - and as soon as she sees Derek, she makes a show of draping herself over Stiles’ back so as to saturate the material in his scent.

“Hey,” Stiles says, turning to Derek with a smile that warms him to his toes, “Sleep well?”

“Better than expected,” he says, and Stiles’ smile upticks into a mega-watt grin.

“I cast some extra wards on the doors before I passed out. Nothing should be able to get in, but the downside is you might not be able to leave.”

“Derek doesn’t mind. Trust me,” Erica says, shooting him a knowing smirk.

Derek glares. 

The innuendo goes right over Stiles’ head, thank the gods. “Breakfast should be ready in a bit. I know better than to put food on the table before there’s enough for everyone. Scott has literally tackled me for the last piece of bacon.”

 _“That was one time!”_ Scott shouts, before he’s pushing his way past Derek to get into the tiny kitchen, the two of them sniping at each other. Erica and Isaac work together to steal another piece of bacon while he’s distracted.

Derek is only half listening, though. There’s a string tugging at the back of his head where his pack bonds reside, a glimmer growing brighter every moment. Spontaneous bonds don’t just _happen._ Not for an alpha, but Stiles is cooking. Providing for his pack. Stiles kept his pack _safe._

He barely bites back a groan. “Fuck me,” he mutters.

“Later, if you’re lucky,” Stiles says, then freezes, the pancake he was about to flip slipping to the floor. He flushes from the tips of his ears to his chest, and Derek wonders just how far down that blush goes.

“Jesus, just get a room already,” Scott groans; Erica and Isaac crack up.

He is _so_ screwed.

* * *

Stiles isn’t entirely sure what happened the night of the full moon, but he runs into Derek more often now - at the post office when he’s sending his father a box of food he picked up at the Polish deli around the corner; offering him a ride into the city so he doesn’t have to wait for the train in the unseasonable autumn heat; helping with his groceries when the elevator goes out, again. Twice. 

Even his pack isn’t exempt. Malia takes the liberty of letting herself into his apartment, steals a handful of the cookies Melissa sent to Scott, and pours herself a glass of milk, like she owns the place. Erica at least knocks before waltzing into the apartment - sans pants - and collapsing on their couch. Tiny bursts of energy flash at the back of his mind that he’s choosing to ignore. He’s not their emissary. He’s just -- connecting with the first pack to welcome he and Scott without judgement.

Yeah. Sure. Keep telling yourself that.

He’s tossing half a loaf of stale bread to the pigeons at the small park on the corner when Scott sees Isaac, walking alongside Derek in his wolf-skin. He lets out a happy little bark, running to Scott and tackling him to the ground. The 7 train rattles past on the elevated tracks. Stiles ducks as the pigeons scatter. 

“Easy, Isaac, don’t break him,” Derek says, but Scott just laughs, pushing himself up to a seated position.

“It’s all good.”

“Yeah, I bet it is,” Stiles mutters, while both Scott and Isaac turn to glare.

Delores - one of the little old ladies from their building with curly, white hair cropped close to her head - looks on in fond amusement. Her granddaughter skates around the flagpole, singing some song about Halloween - it's the middle of November.

She gasps when she sees Isaac, skating over so fast, she almost trips. “Can I pet the dog? What’s his name?”

“Isaac,” Delores says, “And he’s a wolf, Aria.”

Aria’s eyes widen, but Isaac disentangles himself from Scott, sitting in front of her with his tongue hanging out. For all that Isaac might shy away from most adults, Stiles has learned, he revels in being around children.

Aria giggles and pets the top of his head. Delores offers Stiles a wink, then goes back to the puzzle book in her lap.

Derek just smirks. “What trouble are you two getting into?”

Stiles gasps, holding his hand to his chest. “Derek, I am offended. How could you ever think such a horrible, horrible thing?”

Derek tugs his sunglasses down his nose, eyeing Stiles with disbelief tempered with amusement.

Stiles huffs a laugh, unable to keep up the charade. “We’re just feeding the pigeons, dude, don’t get your panties in a twist.”

“That’s illegal you know.”

“All the more reason to do it.” Stiles grins, and Derek rolls his eyes, shoving his sunglasses back up his nose. He still takes the piece of bread Stiles offers, crushing it into pieces before tossing it to the ground.

Isaac follows Stiles and Scott back to their apartment. He heads straight to the bathroom, and a moment later, a head of curly blonde hair peeks out, looking surprisingly shy for a dude who’s naked in someone else’s home.

“Scott,” he says, ducking his head, “Could I borrow a pair of pants?”

Scott smiles, easy as you please, and Stiles doesn’t bother to bite back a grin. Scent marking already, and they haven’t even kissed yet.

Scott shoves Stiles in the shoulder on his way to the bedroom. Stiles sweeps his books off of the folding table in the hallway and into his backpack, throwing it over his shoulder.

“You have sex on the couch, you can find yourself a new best friend,” Stiles says.

Isaac flips him off, cheeks going an even darker shade of pink. Stiles heads for the front door with a spring in his step.

He plans on heading to the coffee shop around the corner, but his feet carry him upstairs of their own accord. He’s knocking on Derek’s door before he really has a chance to think about what he’s doing.

Derek opens the door and raises his eyebrow. “Something you need, Stiles?” he asks, leaning against the doorway with his arms folded. 

“A new couch, probably.” He sighs. “Can I hang out here for a while? I have a ton of work to do. I’ll be quiet.”

“That I need to see to believe,” Derek says, but he steps to the side, ushering Stiles in.

He’s too busy peering around Derek’s apartment to come up with a response. The fact that Derek invites him into his den without hesitation makes Stiles’ chest fill with warmth. Werewolves are notoriously protective of their homes, usually having a secondary location to meet with other packs or human guests. Morrell, the emissary he trained under, always performed their sessions in the basement of her house. 

Her alpha frankly gives him the creeps, but he allowed Scott to visit with little protest, which was more than he could say for other alphas he’s come into contact with over the years. And he wasn’t about to turn down the chance to work with one of the most powerful druids in the country.

From the looks of things, Derek knocked down the wall between this apartment and the next, leaving a huge, open space. The wards around the entrance are good, but not great. Stiles itches to get his hands on some sage and cedar oil, to amp up the protection, but that isn’t his place. He shakes his head.

A classic, cherry wood dining table sits against the wall, surrounded by six chairs. A small gym has been set up at the other end of the apartment, the weights no doubt heavier than anything Stiles could ever dream of lifting.

A forest painted on a giant canvas takes up most of the wall in muted shades of green, brown, and gold, so lifelike, Stiles isn’t entirely convinced that he won’t be transported there if he gets too close.

“Kira paints,” Derek says, pride shining through his voice. “We sell most of them, but this one…” he trails off.

“Someplace special?” Stiles asks, and a wistful expression passes over Derek’s face, like a cloud passing over the sun, there one moment and gone the next.

“Yes. It’s where I grew up.” His voice breaks. He clears his throat. “Come on. You can work in the livingroom.”

Stiles doesn’t force him to elaborate. He starts to follow, walking past the kitchen, then doubles back with a gasp. 

The kitchen is twice the size of his, with gleaming chrome, state-of-the-art appliances, even an industrial-size oven, and so much counter space, Stiles doesn’t know where to look.

He makes an unholy sound. “Dude,” Stiles says, _“Dude.”_

“Don’t call me dude.”

 _“Dude,”_ Stiles says emphatically, and Derek rolls his eyes. “I want your kitchen. I want to have its little kitchen babies.”

“You sound like a babbling idiot,” Derek says, and Stiles yelps when he grabs at the top strap of his backpack, yanking him further into the apartment. “If you can get through the rest of the day without calling me dude, I might be persuaded to let you come up here and use my oven.”

“That sounds naughty.” Stiles wiggles his eyebrows.

Derek lets go, steadying Stiles when he almost topples over. “You’re ridiculous,” he says, but his lips are twitching, like he’s fighting back a smile.

“Guilty!” Stiles grins, plopping down on the floor in front of the coffee table. “Where’s the rest of the furry menagerie?”

Derek sighs, heavy and weary; Stiles has that effect on people. “Malia and Kira are answering house calls. Erica and Boyd are working at the bakery around the corner.”

 _“Blue Moon?”_ Stiles groans when Derek nods. “Oh my god, their cupcakes give me _life._ Why haven’t I ever seen them in there? Wait, I thought Erica worked with the police?” Stiles distinctly remembers Boyd telling him, with pride, that Erica was recently accepted into the Supernatural Affairs Unit of the NYPD, one of the best of its kind in the country.

Derek’s eyes widen, like he hadn’t expected Stiles to remember. “She does, but until a permanent spot opens up at the precinct, she’s just on call.” 

He shakes his head. “Boyd’s usually in the back filling orders. Erica’s covering for the owner while she’s out on maternity leave. Apparently, she went into labor and fell into a wedding cake. Boyd almost cried.”

“I don’t know whether to laugh or give Boyd a hug,” Stiles says, and Derek snorts. He settles on the couch with his laptop, while Stiles drags his books from his bag, grimacing at his notes. 

Getting his Pharmacy degree was his father’s idea - a way, no doubt, to keep him away from law enforcement. Stiles could have gotten into any school in the country, but Scott wanted to study at NYU, and Stiles needed to get out of Oregon as soon as possible. 

All he wants is to open his own magic shop; could, so long as Morrell proved his emissary training. But he still wouldn’t be able to legally carry the more dangerous herbs - the ones most used by werewolves - without his license.

His phone vibrates, providing a blessed distraction, and he grins when he sees the forwarded e-mail from his dad with his flight itinerary. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be studying?” Derek asks as Stiles thumbs out a quick, exclamation-point filled response.

“I’ve been studying for--” He glances up at the clock. “Twenty whole minutes. My brain needs a break, Derek. It’s scientifically proven.”

“Do you have an answer for everything?”

“Absolutely everything.” Stiles tips his head back and grins upside down just in time to catch Derek rolling his eyes. 

* * *

Derek bites back the very real urge to run his hands through Stiles’ hair. It’s getting harder and harder to remind himself that while casual touches might be acceptable among his betas, Stiles isn’t a member of his pack. 

“My dad’s coming up for Thanksgiving,” Stiles says, and Derek quickly reviews the past few minutes to reacquaint himself with the conversation. “Scott’s mom is a nurse, and he was waiting to get tickets until she could confirm she could take the weekend off. Usually, we fly back home, but Dad’s never been to New York, and Melissa hasn’t been here since she was a kid, so they’re making it a vacation.” 

Stiles’ face is slowly turning red, and he wobbles, dropping his head back down with a deep breath. He spins around, which he could have done in the first place, but Derek is quickly learning that Stiles doesn’t do anything the easy way. “What are your plans?”

Derek closes his laptop, putting it on the cushion at his side. “Don’t really have any. The rest of the pack goes home for Thanksgiving, so we can all spend Christmas together. It's just me and Isaac.” Cora opted to stay abroad with her girlfriend - apparently, Lydia’s best friend has family in France - but promised to come home for Christmas. Derek hasn’t seen his sister in eight months. Girlfriend or no girlfriend, when she gets here, she isn’t leaving the den for a week.

“Usually, we just order in Boston Market and watch the game,” Derek says. Stiles’ mouth drops open, lips distractingly red from where he’d been biting at them while he worked. 

“You’re _what?”_ He shakes his head. “No. I won’t stand for it. You’re spending Thanksgiving with us.”

Derek sighs heavily. Stiles isn’t the first person to try and rope him into coming to Thanksgiving dinner. Delores rings him every year, even though he always says no. She still insists on sending Aria over with a giant tray of food, much to Isaac’s delight. “Stiles--”

“Nope!” He doesn’t let Derek get a word in edgewise. “It’s done. Set. Match.”

“I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

Stiles snorts, but when he smiles, Derek’s stomach twists. “Dude, I promise. You won’t be intruding. I wouldn’t have invited you if I didn’t want you there.”

Stiles looks so hopeful, Derek can’t say no. “Fine. And don’t call me dude.”

Stiles leaps to his feet, shoving his books back into his bag with zero regard for their well being. Derek winces at the already dog-eared pages. “I’ll tell my dad to get food for two more.” He pauses, turning to Derek with an impish grin. “Fair warning - Scott’s mom may try to adopt you.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Derek says dryly.

Except Stiles wasn’t kidding. The moment Melissa meets Isaac, she offers him a hug. Isaac’s so tall, he needs to duck down, but he accepts the hug, as readily as he accepted Scott. That alone makes Derek like the woman.

John Stilinski is a man with an open face and a laid-back demeanor. That doesn’t make him any less imposing when he shakes Derek’s hand.

“Pleased to meet you,” he says, sending a telling glance towards his son that Derek chooses to ignore and Isaac latches onto like a limpet.

“Daaaad!” Stiles whines, before rushing off to check on the turkey with a flushed face.

Dinner goes off without a hitch. There’s a full spread on the table - turkey and mashed potatoes, green bean casserole and sweet potato pie, and more. So much more. All made in Stiles’ tiny kitchen.

“This is incredible, Stiles,” Derek says, ignoring the face Isaac makes behind John’s back. Melissa glares, and he desists.

“I told you I could cook,” Stiles says, haughty as ever. “Now will you let me use your kitchen?”

“Depends - can you promise not to poison me?”

“Oh, ha fucking ha.”

Stiles yelps as John slaps the back of his head.

“Language,” John says, though he’s biting back a smile. “Behave; you have guests.”

Stiles snorts. “What guests? Isaac practically lives here now.”

Isaac suddenly becomes very interested in his potatoes. 

Melissa glances over at John, shooting him a soft smile. She reaches over to hold his hand, while asking Stiles and Scott about school. Watching the two of them interact makes Derek think of his parents, the way they used to orbit each other like satellites, magnets drawn due north. 

Melissa offers to do the dishes after dinner, and as Derek brings in the empty plates, he catches John leaning back against the counter at her side, holding a dish towel in one hand. He splashes her with the water in the sink, and Melissa flicks his forehead. John smiles like she’s the sun.

Derek’s chest wrenches violently, and he places the plates down onto the kitchen table a bit forcefully, much to Scott’s consternation.

“Excuse me,” Derek says, ignoring their concerned faces as he steps out.

He hasn’t thought about his parents, not like this, in a long, long time. Usually, he avoids any memories of his family like the plague, but there’s no one in his apartment to see him rub his eyes as he falls back onto the couch, or drop his head into his hands, clutching at his hair.

His phone rings. Derek considers ignoring it, until he sees Cora’s name on the screen.

“I can feel you angsting from halfway across the world,” she says as soon as he picks up. “What’s wrong, big brother?”

Derek settles with his head back, shutting his eyes. “Just… having a rough day. You know how the holidays are.”

She makes a sound of agreement. “So what else is bothering you?”

Derek shakes his head. He’s never been good with words, doesn’t know how to explain any of what he’s feeling. He can feel Stiles’ worry through a bond that shouldn’t exist, not as strong as the rest of his pack, but still ever-present - a whisper from the floor below rather than a scream. 

A memory pops into his head, and he latches onto it. “Do you remember that Thanksgiving Peter brought his new girlfriend home?”

Cora huffs a laugh. “Of course I remember. She hated all of us on sight. What was her name? Britney?” 

“Brenda.”

“Whatever,” Cora mutters, and Derek smiles. The moment Brenda walked through the doorway, he and Laura made bets as to how long she would last. It was an honor to be invited to a pack dinner on a holiday, but she treated it more like a curse, glaring at the chaos: his cousins running around screaming, the adults playing cards while doing shots of wolfsbane-laced liquor, his mother reaching over with a tray of food balanced on her palm to steal his father’s shot glass, somehow predicting the winner correctly every time.

One of his cousins ate too much pie and threw up in Brenda’s purse. Peter tossed her out on her ear before the tirade could go farther than, “Why, you little --” She didn’t last through dinner. Laura won the bet. 

Derek reveled in that chaos. 

His smile dims. “I miss them, Cora,” he says, the words raw and aching as they claw their way from his throat. He squeezes his eyes shut against tears he rarely lets fall.

So rarely that Cora says, “Me too,” then takes a ragged breath of her own. “I’m going to come home.”

“No. You’ve been looking forward to this for weeks.” She wouldn’t shut up about it, walked him through every step of booking their trip from Rome to Lourmarin. “Stay.”

“First of all, I’m not a dog.” Derek rolls his eyes. “Second, I can come back to France any time I want. Don’t be stupid.”

“You’re stupid,” he mutters.

“And your comebacks haven’t improved at all. Good to know some things never change.” Someone whispers to Cora in the background, and she waves them off. “Seriously, Derek. Just say the word. If you need me, I’ll come home.”

“I’ll be fine.” He forces the words out. 

“Liar.” She sighs. “I love you, jerkface.”

“Love you, too.”

Derek hangs up, tossing his phone to the side without opening his eyes. He doesn’t know how long he sits there without moving before someone knocks at the door. He weighs the pros and cons of getting up to see whoever is there.

Another knock, this one louder than the last. “Derek?” Stiles’ voice carries into the apartment. “You in there?”

Derek’s legs move of their own volition, carrying him off of the couch and down the hall. Stiles stands on the other side of the door. Aria pokes her head out from behind his back, holding one of Delores’ ceramic trays. 

“There’s a midget here to see you,” Stiles says, and Aria scowls.

“I’m not a midget. I’m a girl.”

Stiles shrugs. “Same thing.”

Aria lets out a haughty “Hmph,” turning to Derek with a smile. “Nonna sent me up to give this to you.” She holds out the tray and almost topples over - it’s practically as big as she is.

Derek takes the tray, saving Aria and the food from certain doom. “Thank you,” he says, pushing past the urge to remain silent. “Tell your grandmother _Grazie.”_

Aria nods. She gives Stiles an assessing look, kicking him in the shin with her sneakered foot before skipping over to the stairs. 

Stiles scowls, leaning to rub at his leg. “Little brat.”

“You did call her a midget.”

 _“Brat,”_ he repeats. Derek rolls his eyes. “So my Dad and Melissa went for a walk, and Scott and Isaac are canoodling on the couch.” 

“Canoodling?” He raises an eyebrow. “What are you, ninety?”

“Whatever dude. If you want me to tell you all about the sounds Scott makes while he’s making out, then I’ll describe, in detail, how Isaac had his hand down Scott’s--”

Derek presses a hand over his mouth, stopping the stream of words. Stiles looks up at him with wide eyes. He’s been sensing Stiles more and more lately, like he’s one of his own; he shoves the feeling back, deep down where he can’t reach. It makes him want to throw his head back and howl.

Derek drops his hand, taking the tray from Stiles and ushering him inside.

“You okay?” Stiles asks as Derek makes room for the tray in the fridge. The food will be gone by tomorrow morning. “You left pretty abruptly.”

Derek doesn’t answer right away. He waits until they sit down, settling in on the couch. “My sister called.”

“Cora, right?” 

Derek nods. He doesn’t say anything else, staring down at his hands clenched in his lap. The clock on the wall ticks away. Derek counts each in his head.

“You know, you can talk to me,” Stiles says, as he reaches one hundred. “If you want. I get that some things are personal.”

Derek swallows past the lump in his throat and the voice in his head encouraging him to stay quiet. He trusts Stiles. It terrifies him how much he trusts Stiles. “My family -- died in a fire. When I was sixteen. My sisters and I -- were the only ones who survived.” 

He remembers the absolute agony of his family’s lives being snuffed out, the bonds between them slowly burning away until only he and his sisters remained. 

It was Laura’s idea to leave, take off across the country, as far from Beacon Hills as they could manage. She was the alpha, barely twenty, and Cora was just a child. Derek was of no use, practically catatonic. There hadn’t been hunters in Beacon Hills for decades; no one knew where to start looking for clues. The knowledge that he was the reason his family was dead pressed down on him like a weight. Nothing mattered anymore.

He never told Laura about Kate; they were supposed to be safe in New York, blending in among the big city. They were supposed to leave all of that behind. 

Kate found them - killed Laura in the alley behind their apartment, but she missed the security camera tucked neatly between the bricks. When the cops brought her in, they brought Derek down to the station, and he told them everything - how Kate convinced him that she loved him, that he could trust her, how she followed him home one day, sneaking in through the basement window and pressing a finger to her mouth. How the next day, everyone was dead.

Cora saw the whole thing from the other side of the mirrored glass. She took off as soon as she graduated high school, before she even turned eighteen. She’s never forgiven him. 

The rest of the pack formed accidentally, a series of events Derek couldn’t have seen coming from a mile away. Isaac was in Cora’s class, still seventeen and being abused by his father. The injuries were bad enough, they called a list of alphas before landing on him, asking for anyone who would give him the bite.

Derek didn’t hesitate. Lahey was lucky he was already behind bars.

Erica’s parents begged him to give their daughter the bite - apparently, her epilepsy had gotten so bad, she couldn’t leave the house. Boyd was practically attached to her side, mated before they even knew what the word meant - where Erica went, so did he.

So, Derek bit him, too.

Malia and Kira already lived down the hall when Derek bought the building - an impulse buy, if one could call several million dollars an impulse, borne by the desperate need to get out of the apartment where his sister died. Kira attached herself to Derek like a leech, spending more time in his apartment than her own. Malia reminded him so much of Cora, he could barely stand to be in the same room with her until Erica called him out for being a dick. She and Cora get on like they’ve known each other their whole lives. 

The first time he ran with his entire pack under the full moon, a shredded piece of him knitted back together. His pack is small and broken, but they’re his.

Derek says all of this to Stiles, poison seeping out of an open wound. He doesn’t interrupt, just allows Derek to talk and talk until he’s hoarse. When he’s finished, he just feels numb. 

“It's...hard,” he says, clearing his throat.“Having them gone.” 

The room goes quiet again; Derek goes back to counting the ticking clock.

* * *

Contrary to popular belief, Stiles does know when to keep his mouth shut. He gets the feeling Derek doesn’t talk like this often, that he doesn’t let people in the way he seems to be with Stiles. 

Like Stiles didn’t know, anyway. Like there was an emissary or a wolf in the entire country who didn’t remember what happened to the Hales. News among the supernatural community travels fast on a good day. When a family as powerful as theirs was completely wiped out, that doesn’t make waves so much as a tsunami.

Stiles didn’t put two and two together until recently, when Malia let slip that Derek’s family died in a fire. He almost slapped himself in the face. Derek _Hale._ Of course. He was an idiot. Even Scott realized early on, or so he claimed; considering his tendency to miss a fly buzzing past his nose, that didn’t say much good about Stiles’ deduction skills. His mother only met Talia once, at some gathering of alphas that only happens once every ten years. 

She didn’t tell him this, of course. His father did - she was already dead when the fire killed the Hales.

Stiles rubs his thumb over the hummingbird tattoo on his wrist and takes a deep breath. “My mom was an emissary, you know,” he says.

Derek finally looks up, brow furrowed. “I didn’t. It makes sense though; magic runs in families.”

Stiles nods, thumb tracing over the outline of delicate wings. “She was emissary to Alpha Deucalion.” Derek’s eyes widen a little. It’s the response Stiles usually gets - Deucalion was the most powerful alpha in the country, after Talia Hale passed. 

Everyone knows he went a little crazy when his emissary died. Stiles had a front-row seat to that particular shit-show. “Apparently, they met when he did some talk at her college. He needed an emissary, and she needed a pack, and they just -- clicked. Like they’d known each other forever.” He sighs and shakes his head. “When she died, I was supposed to take over, when I was old enough.” 

Stiles tried - up, down, and sideways, training day and night with Morrell, hours upon hours of hard work and dedication to his craft. All for nothing.

For an alpha, losing an emissary wasn’t so much like losing a limb as it was slowly tearing their limbs off with their own claws. The look on Deucalion’s face when he realized Stiles could never be his emissary, would never have the same connection with him that Claudia did, will haunt Stiles for the rest of his life. In a way, it felt like the ultimate failure, a betrayal to his mother’s memory, that he couldn’t continue doing the thing she loved the most. 

The panic attack that thought initially induced was the worst since the night of his mother’s funeral. It took his father hours to talk him off of the ledge, years and a lot of tumultuous conversations with his therapist for him to come to terms with it.

Mason’s a better fit, anyway. Stiles likes the kid.

“It just didn’t work out,” Stiles finishes, staring down at his tattoo. He startles when Derek places a hand on his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry,” he says; they aren’t just words said for Stiles’ benefit. He feels Derek’s sadness like a weight pressing down, and Stiles bites his lip, hard. He shouldn’t be feeling like this. It’s wrong, to connect with someone on this level, especially an alpha, without their permission. 

“She used to call me her little hummingbird. You know, because they move so fast. When I finished emissary training, I knew this would be my first tattoo.”

“And this one?” Derek squeezes his left arm, right above the tattoo. A zing of electricity flashes right down the line of his spine.

“My pack.” Stiles trails his finger over the fox, its tail winding into a spiral. Scott has an exact replica on his left arm, two circles winding around his bicep just above the elbow, binding them together. “Scott and Stiles, together against the world.”

“That sounds lonely.”

“Yeah, well no one wants to take on an emissary already bonded to a packless omega.” He’s been courted by several packs, but none of them could get past old beliefs. Scott blames himself, for the fact that Stiles still hasn’t found a pack. Stiles blames the speciest assholes who couldn’t see what they were letting walk out the door. He and Scott are pretty awesome. 

“He’s not packless,” Derek says, sure and firm. Stiles’ head snaps up. “He might still be an omega, but he’s not packless. He has you.”

Stiles’ heart constricts in his chest. No one has ever understood, ever, in all the years since Scott was bitten by a rogue alpha. The only thing more dangerous than an alpha who lost his emissary is an alpha without a pack. He stalked Scott, threatened to kill his mother and all of his friends when Scott refused to join him. 

Scott latched onto Stiles and refused to let go. It was natural to bond with Scott in that moment, easy as breathing. He and Scott are brothers, have been since he gave Stiles his extra Reese's cup at the hospital while Stiles’ mother was dying in a hospital room across the hall. The tattoo is more than just a symbol - there’s magic woven into the ink, threaded through his skin. Binding them together for life.

Deucalion killed the alpha, violent and bloody. Scott could have joined Deucalion’s pack in that moment - the offer still stands - but Scott refuses to go somewhere Stiles inevitably can’t follow. The feeling is mutual, of course, but hearing the words come out of someone else’s mouth, what Stiles has been trying to tell everyone all along… 

Stiles leans towards Derek, pulled towards him like a magnet. Derek moves to meet him, eyes closing, breath hot against his face as their lips almost touch.

A knock at the door knocks them both away from each other.

“Stiles!” Scott says, breathless and excited from the other side of the door. Stiles rolls his eyes, shoving himself to his feet, ignoring the way his heart is thundering in his chest.

Scott’s standing on the other side of the door with an envelope clutched in his fist, which he shoves at Stiles without preamble. “Someone just dropped this off for you.”

Stiles glances at the envelope, freezing when he sees the heavy paper, the red wax seal pressing it shut.

“What is it?” Derek asks, voice surprisingly steady as Stiles runs a trembling finger against the wax, breaking the seal. He pulls the letter out, hand-written on thick cardstock, eyes flying over the page. 

“It’s from the McKnight pack. They’re friends of Deucalion’s.” He glances up at Derek, barely daring to breathe. “They want me to be their emissary.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the wonderful dream-mancer for the beta, and for her cheerleading and encouragement over the past few days while I was trying to complete this beast.
> 
> As a heads up, the tag "Panic Attacks" has been added as of this chapter.
> 
>  
> 
> **[[Mood Music]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z-fD3PIRSO8) **

Stiles eyes the letter like it has teeth.

They’re crowded around his rickety dining table, him, Scott, his Dad, Melissa, even Derek and Isaac. All staring at an otherwise innocuous piece of paper. A piece of paper that could change his life.

His dad is the first to break, picking up the letter, eyes roving back and forth over the page.

“A bit old fashioned, isn’t it?” Melissa asks, reading over his shoulder. “Having someone deliver a letter.”

John snorts. “You know Deucalion.”

Melissa rolls her eyes; of course she does. She’s been as much a fixture with his pack as the Stilinskis over the years. “Who dropped it off again?” 

“Alpha McKnight’s acting emissary - Heather.” Scott keeps glancing at Stiles out of the corner of his eye. Stiles keeps ignoring him. “Said she couldn’t stay long, but she would be back tomorrow to pick up your answer.” 

There’s a brief pause, then his father’s hand comes down on his shoulder. “Stiles?”

“What?” He snaps, jumping at the touch, dislodging his hand. John raises an eyebrow, holding the letter up between two fingers. Stiles snatches it away. “Oh - right.” Twenty-four hours to respond to an official invitation. It’s not like he needs time to think or anything. “Okay.”

He stares back down at the letter. He swears the letter stares back. “What do I do, Dad?” Stiles asks, sounding more helpless than he would like. Isaac makes a noise like a dying whale.

“Whatever you want to do son,” John says, clapping him on the shoulder again. “It’s your choice.”

Stiles’ hands tremble. He turns to Derek, fingers twisting one of the corners of the cardstock. “What do you think?”

Derek stares. Something happened between them upstairs, something profound that he can’t take back, the sort of connection his mother always spoke of between emissary and alpha, the kind that only happens once.

Ask me, Stiles thinks, so loudly any psychic within a mile would be able to hear him. Ask me to be your emissary. _Ask me!_

Derek’s face blanks, eyes going dark like he’s drawn the shutters. “I think you should say yes,” Derek says, and Stiles plants his feet, willing his clenching fingers to be the only sign of his nerves.

“You don’t think it might be good to -- wait? For someone else?”

Stiles holds his breath in the brief pause that follows.

“No,” Derek says, and Stiles’ heart sinks right through his stomach to somewhere around his feet. “No, I don’t think you should.”

Derek leaves shortly thereafter, without saying goodbye or even a backwards glance. Isaac sighs, waves, and follows. 

Stiles doesn’t bother waiting until the next day; he sends a response to Heather via text message to the phone number written in the letter before he can change his mind. He ignores the looks of concern aimed at him from all sides, shoves the note into the junk drawer in his desk, and says he’s going to bed. Out of sight, out of mind.

He doesn’t sleep a wink.

He distracts himself the next morning by drinking copious amounts of coffee and dragging their boxes of Christmas decorations out of the closet. Scott yawns as he walks out of his room, pausing with a hand still scratching at his hair.

“Stiles,” he says, brow furrowing. “What are you doing?”

“Oh good, you’re up.” Stiles hands one of the boxes off to Scott. He fumbles, barely gripping the box before it crashes to the floor. “Help me with these.”

“Stiles,” Scott says, voice muffled by the cardboard tower in front of his mouth, while Stiles ignores him in favor of rummaging around for their tree-topper. “Stiles, don’t you think we should talk about this?”

“Nope.” He piles another box on so he can’t see the concern written into every line of Scott’s face. “When are Dad and your mom getting here? I want to get the tree.”

Scott sighs and heads into the living room to drop off his loot. 

Besides a few sideways glances, neither John nor Melissa say anything when they show up, the four of them heading down the street to the Christmas tree vendor set up in the park. It’s been tradition since before he can even remember, his mother dragging his father out to find a Christmas tree the day after Thanksgiving, spending all day putting up the decorations until everything was the perfect blend of merry and bright. 

The 7 train rattles past, sending pigeons flying everywhere, while Stiles examines every tree under a microscope. His father knows better than to interrupt, standing back and letting Stiles choose. His voice floats along in the background as he tells Scott about possible new job opportunities, promotions for he and Melissa. Scott swells with pride.

John never interrupted Claudia, either.

“You have to look for something special,” she said, holding Stiles’ hand as they walked around the lot. “Something that makes the tree unique.”

Stiles leans a hand against a bench, sweat rolling down the back of his neck even as his breath fogs on the frigid air. Talking about his mother yesterday rattled something loose, memories usually locked up tight thrown open like Pandora’s box. He can’t think straight.

“You okay?” Scott asks, and Stiles shakes his head, forcing away the image of his mother humming to Christmas songs, swaying with Stiles on her hip.

“Fine.” Stiles straightens up and loosens his scarf, swallowing hard past the lump in his throat. He points to the tree closest. “This one’s good.”

“Good?” Scott says, incredulous. Usually, Stiles waxes poetic about the tree’s perfect imperfections until his explanations slide over that very thin, Stiles-sized line between amusing and annoying.

“Yes, Scotty, good,” Stiles snaps, yanking his scarf undone and shoving it into his pocket so the ends don’t drag on the ground, leaving him off balanced. “The opposite of bad. Favorable. Satisfying. Absolutely fucking spiffing.”

“Language,” his father says, helping Scott balance the tree on his shoulder while Stiles growls, yanks his wallet out of his pocket, and stomps off to pay.

Scott and John head straight to the living room and start positioning the tree. Stiles attends to his usual task of picking out his favorite Christmas albums - The Chipmunks and White Christmas. He plays them at max volume on his mother’s vintage Victrola, which he stole from the attic when he moved to New York. The record player is the same shade of blue as his Jeep - also once his mother’s.

Melissa strings the lights, laughing and slapping at Scott when he drops a handful of tinsel into her hair.

Mom always said that it wasn’t Christmas without music.

Stiles’ hand shakes, stomach wrenching as he tries to place the first ornament on the tree; it crashes to the carpet, shattering on impact. His heart slams against his ribcage, his vision going fuzzy at the edges.

His dad guides him to the floor with his head between his knees, giving him space while he tries to remember how to catch his breath. Someone’s leg presses against his back, skin changing to fur as Scott wraps around his side and eases under his knees, letting Stiles get handfuls of his fur. 

Melissa’s footsteps cross the apartment, and the floorboards creak under her shoes. She returns with a glass of water.

“Drink,” she says, and Stiles lifts the glass to his mouth on autopilot. She takes it from him with careful hands when he’s finished.

“Somebody say something,” Stiles whispers; the uneasy silence roars in his ears. “Anything.”

“Stiles, maybe you should wait,” John says, using the milkcrate coffee table to pull himself onto the floor with a grunt. “Tell the McKnight pack you need more time.”

Anything but that.

Stiles leans against the couch, tipping his head back and closing his eyes, heart still beating like a jungle drum in his chest. Scott crawls into his lap.

“No,” Stiles says, “I can’t.”

* * *

Isaac slams the door as he walks into the apartment, sending the horseshoe hanging above the doorframe clattering against the wall. He tried to argue with Derek the moment they left Stiles and Scott’s apartment, but Derek refuses to have this discussion out in the open where everyone could hear.

“What the fuck was that, Derek?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Derek says, dropping his jacket in the closet before heading towards the living room. He rubs a hand over his face.

Isaac follows, like a dog wanting a bone. “He was practically begging you to be your emissary and you just let him go.”

Derek whirls around, eyes flashing red. “If he wanted it so badly, he should have asked,” he snaps, and Isaac flinches backwards. He regains his footing, stepping up to Derek, hands fisting at his sides. His shoulders tense around his ears.

“You’re an idiot,” he growls, turning on his heel and stomping off to his room. The door slams, echoing so Derek’s teeth rattle. He sinks back against the wall, staring down at the floor.

The moment he walked away from Stiles, he almost turned back around, admitted to lying. The idea of another alpha taking Stiles into their pack makes Derek sick to his stomach, but he squeezes the bridge of his nose between his fingers until the sensation fades.

Stiles deserves this, he tells himself, deserves to be the emissary to an alpha who isn’t broken. 

_So why haven’t you broken your bond with him yet,_ a traitorous voice whispers at the back of his mind. He squashes it down with a furious mental stomp.

Derek goes out of his way to avoid Stiles - waiting until he leaves for class to run his errands, returning before Stiles comes home from his internship. He spent enough time with Stiles over the past few weeks that he knows the other boy’s schedule to a T. Isaac spends more time with Scott than he does in his own apartment, so Stiles’ scent permeates Isaac’s clothes when he does come home, stinking up the loft. They’ve barely spoken since that first argument - if Stiles joins another pack, then Isaac loses Scott, too.

“Boss!” Malia shouts out into the living room where he’s attacking a punching bag with vigor. He grunts, picking up his shirt from the floor as she walks in from the kitchen.

“For you,” she says, eyes flickering blue and back again in the space of a blink. Derek stops the punching bag from swinging with trepidation. “It’s Heather. From the McKnight pack.”

The room stills, every eye turning towards Derek as Malia crosses the room, handing the phone to Derek with wary eyes and a downturned mouth. Boyd puts down the recipe book he’s been flipping through for the better part of an hour, while Kira scurries out of the kitchen where she’s been putting away groceries.

Derek wipes his face with his shirt. “Hello?”

“Alpha Hale? My name is Heather, I’m calling on behalf of --”

“I know who you are,” he says, cutting her off. If his mother were here to see how he treated another pack’s emissary, she’d cuff him one. “What do you want?”

The response sets Heather off balance, stammering where she’d been sure of herself. “Um - well - my alpha would like to meet with Emissary Stilinski. We’re aware that he lives in your territory, and would like to make formal arrangements for a visit.”

“You didn’t seem to have any trouble coming here without permission to drop off that letter a few days ago.”

Kira hisses, slapping at his shoulder. _“Derek.”_

“Burn,” Malia mutters, earning a stomped-on foot from her girlfriend.

“I didn’t enter the building,” Heather says, while Derek turns towards the windows, ignoring each and every one of his pack members. “Scott met me on the corner, as he informed me that Stiles was… otherwise engaged.” Her choice of words makes Derek wonder what Scott actually said about the two of them alone in his apartment. His hand clenches tighter around the phone at the memory. 

Heather takes a breath when Derek says nothing else, then continues, clipped and professional. “Madison would like to visit next week. Is that acceptable for you?”

The gazes of his betas burn into his back. He tugs his shirt back on like armor, protecting him from a war of his own making. 

“Fine,” he grunts, clenching his jaw. “Someone will meet you in the lobby when you arrive.” 

“Thank--”

He hangs up before she can get another word out. Every eye in the room turns on him, battering him with the scent of too many emotions, thrumming through the pack bonds on all sides. 

He rubs at the headache forming at his temple. “What?”

“You’re not usually such a stickler for tradition,” Boyd says, slow and cautious. 

“We don’t know these people, Boyd,” Derek says, handing the phone back to Malia when she holds out her palm. “They could be using Stiles as an excuse to hurt him and Scott, to hurt _us._ I have a right to protect my pack.”

Boyd exchanges a glance with Kira, who bites her lip. “Technically Stiles and Scott aren’t your pack. I'm only saying,” he says, holding up his hands when a growl rumbles through Derek’s teeth without his consent.

The day Madison is due to visit, Derek meets Scott and Stiles down at their apartment. Stiles is wearing a button down shirt rather than his customary t-shirt and flannel, and Derek has to look away so he doesn’t stare as Stiles begins to roll the sleeves. The fox tattoo stands out in sharp relief against his skin.

Stiles clears his throat. “How are you?” he asks, unbearably awkward.

Derek leans against the wall, stiff as a board. “Fine. You?”

“Peachy.”

The elevator dings as they reach the lobby, and Derek rushes out, needing to get away from the confined space and the concentrated scent of Stiles’ skin.

Two women sit on the chairs against the wall, standing as soon as Stiles appears. The shorter, blonde woman introduces herself as Heather with a wide, easy smile.

Derek hovers off to the side while Stiles and Scott shake her hand, like an intruder in his own home. He glances at the woman standing at Heather’s side who must be Madison. She’s younger than Derek expected by about twenty years, closer to his age than John or Melissa, and a smile graces her face when Heather finally makes their introductions.

“Nice to meet you, Alpha Hale,” she says. She’s almost Derek’s height, able to meet his eyes straight-on when she shakes his hand. 

“Alpha McKnight,” Derek says, grudgingly admitting to himself that she’s beautiful. 

Straight brown hair curls around her heart-shaped face, long bangs framing green eyes that crinkle when she smiles. “Please, call me Madison.”

Stiles bites at the string of his hoodie, foot tapping against the floor, eyes never leaving Derek. The scent of his nerves fills the small space while he and Madison converse, Stiles shooting brief, questioning glances in his direction between words. Derek breathes shallowly through his mouth.

“Alpha Hale--”

“Derek,” he grunts, drawing a nod from Madison and a frown from Stiles.

“I was wondering if you could suggest somewhere Stiles and I could speak? Somewhere private.”

“Why don’t we head down to Blue Moon - the coffee shop around the corner,” Scott says, explaining for Madison and ignoring the glare Derek brands into the back of his skull. “Our friend, Boyd, makes the desserts. They’re usually dead this time of day.”

“That sounds perfect,” Madison says, giving him a smile. “Thank you. Lead the way, will you, Stiles?”

She gestures a hand, allowing Stiles to take the lead. He makes a show of offering his arm, much to her amusement, leading her down the stairs at a sedate pace. Scott follows along with Heather, who wisely glances over her shoulder, not wanting to keep Derek at their backs until she’s out of his sight.

Derek scrubs his hand through his hair, goes upstairs to change into sneakers and a pair of sweats, then goes for a run. He makes a concerted effort to run in the opposite direction of Blue Moon, mindful to keep his attention focused on only his senses: the brightly colored fruit stands and awnings of discount stores, the scent of basil and oregano from the tiny, family Italian restaurant Kira loves. The cool air blows across the surface of his skin, making him shiver. He runs until his lungs burn and sweat drips down his back, then turns and strolls back to the apartment, a small smile on his face.

The smile fades when he almost runs into Scott and Heather, chatting away and in their own little bubble. He darts across the street and straight into the building.

Derek slows halfway in the door. His eyes widen when the scent of lavender and wet leaves meets his nose. 

He doesn’t bother waiting for the elevator, taking the steps two and three at a time. The scent grows stronger the closer he gets to his apartment. By the time he reaches the sixth floor, he hears a familiar burst of laughter echoing down the hall. 

He falls through the front door and sprints to the living room.

Cora looks up at him from her spot on the couch, grin wide across her face. “Hey, Der-bear.”

“What…” Derek glances at Erica and Kira, needing an explanation.

“I had to call in reinforcements, boss,” Erica says, patting Cora on the thigh. “Your attitude is literally stinking up the apartment.

“We’re worried about you,” Kira says quietly. 

“I’m _fine,_ ” Derek growls, and Cora snorts, smirking when he narrows his eyes in her direction.

“I could feel you angsting from across the city, you liar.” She gets to her feet, folding her arms over her chest when he stands there, torn between gawking and scowling. “Your face is going to get stuck that way.”

“Screw you,” Derek mutters.

Cora sticks out her tongue at him. “You know, I’m getting the feeling you don’t want me here. I could always leave--”

Derek grabs her arm before she can even think about taking a step forwards, tugging her in for the tightest hug he can manage. He buries his face in her neck, inhaling her scent. He hadn’t expected to see his sister for another month. He’s allowed to cling.

Erica brushes her hand against his shoulder and whispers, “You’re welcome.” Kira squeezes his hip. Their footsteps retreat down the hall and out the front door.

Derek doesn’t let go until Cora teases, voice muffled by his shirt, “I guess you did miss me after all.”

“Not even a little,” he says, tugging gently on the ends of her hair.

“Liar.” She takes his hand, sitting down next to him on the couch. “So, talk to me, big brother. What’s going on? Why is your pack so worried about you?” He opens his mouth to brush her off again, but Cora cuts him off. “The truth this time.”

Derek resists the urge to pick a fight, the way he has with everyone else. He takes a deep breath. Then, he starts talking. 

* * *

Stiles leads Madison around the corner, silently fuming.

Could Derek have been any more of an asshole? He can’t say he was surprised when Derek informed him Madison couldn’t come up to his apartment, but to stand there, grunting and glaring like a caveman, was a bit over the top, even for Derek I-speak-fluent-eyebrows Hale.

Thankfully, Madison presents a welcome distraction. She orders their coffees, waving away Stiles’ offer to pay. Boyd never appears from the kitchen in the back.

She and Heather squeeze onto the opposite side of the small, circular table. Scott presses against Stiles’ side, a firm, warm wall of comfort.

“So tell me about your pack,” Madison says, racking up eleventy billion brownie points when she looks at Scott. Deucalion wouldn’t send him to someone who wouldn’t accept Scott, but having verbal confirmation makes some of the tension in his shoulders unwind. “How did you meet?”

“Stiles peed on my sandcastle,” Scott drawls, pouting. Heather covers her mouth to keep her snickering at bay. “We were three.”

“And you still hold it against me,” Stiles says happily.

Their conversation flows like water. Stiles talks about John and Melissa, how they started dating while Scott and Stiles were in college. They managed to keep it a secret until Scott came home for spring break and smelled John all over the house.

“In her bedroom,” Scott says, face a little green. Stiles shudders. Heather holds onto the table for support while she laughs.

Madison explains how her grandmother raised she and her brother, passing the alpha power to her after years of training at her side. Her brother knew Heather through a mutual friend, but she already has a pack.

“I’m on loan,” Heather says dryly, and Stiles snorts. “But my alpha - Ennis - knows Deucalion from the Council.”

Ah yes, the ever-illustrious Council of Alphas, the werewolves’ version of a government. Deucalion was their leader, once upon a time, before -

Well. Before.

Madison continues on, oblivious to the dark turn of Stiles’ thoughts. “When word reached him that I was searching for an emissary, he immediately recommended you.” She smiles. His chest tightens, and a small smile of his own twists across his mouth. 

Halfway through the discussion, Scott and Heather make themselves scarce, Scott offering to give her a brief tour of the neighborhood. 

Madison waits for the barista to finish refilling her cup to take a long, drawn-out sniff. Stiles bites his lip against a smile.

She raises her eyebrow. “What? I like the smell of coffee.”

“You’re not what I imagined,” Stiles blurts out, and Madison raises an eyebrow, lowering her mug to the table.

“And what did you imagine?”

“Someone more - er -” Stiles fumbles, trying to find a word that doesn’t sound, resemble, or is in any way, shape, or form a synonym for the word _old._

“Wizened?” he tries, and Madison barks a laugh. 

“Old, you can say it.”

“Not old, like, Grandma Death old!” Stiles waves his arms around, and Madison’s smirk grows, completely transforming her face. “Just old enough to be my--” Stiles stops cold, arms falling lax at his sides. He winces when one hand smacks against the table on the way down.

Madison leans across, placing her hand over his; a tendril of black slithers up her arm. “I never had the pleasure of meeting your mother,” she says, voice softening, “but Deucalion speaks quite highly of her. She was an amazing woman.”

Stiles swallows, slowly tugging his hand away so he can clench them into fists in his lap. “She was.”

Madison shrugs, attempting to lighten the conversation. “Of course, that’s nothing to the way he talks about you.”

Stiles doubts that. Claudia was his emissary. He’s the one who failed to take her place.

Madison pushes her cup out of the way, leaning forwards on her arms. “Stiles, I’m going to be frank. I need an emissary, sooner rather than later, and I think you and I would make a good match. I’d like you and Scott to join my pack for the full moon. I’ve made arrangements for a private area in the park.”

Stiles freezes with his hand on his cup. He stares at the tabletop, focusing on the pattern of the grain of the wood, the way that one spot looks like a rabbit. He should be rushing to say yes, shouting the word so the entire neighborhood hears. Not trying to keep his heart from beating out of his chest as panic claws at his throat.

“Think about it,” she adds when he doesn’t respond, voice pitched low and soothing. “I don’t need an answer right away.”

Madison departs, meeting Heather on the corner, while Scott and Stiles head in the other direction. They pick up groceries on the way upstairs, and he glares when he sees the familiar laminated note, informing the building of the elevator’s uselessness. He kicks the door and shakes off the pain that lances through his foot and up his leg as he heads up the stairs. Scott wisely does not comment.

Between studying for finals, his internship, and panicking about the prospect of a full moon run with the McKnight pack, he doesn’t have too much time to devote to worrying about anything else. He doesn’t see Derek for a few days, figuring he’s spending time with his sister now that she’s back in town. Stiles hears about Cora through the grapevine - the grapevine meaning Isaac, as he and Kira are the only members of the Hale pack currently not giving him the silent treatment for reasons Stiles refuses to analyze and induce yet another panic attack. Well, Boyd could just be silent. It was hard to tell with Boyd.

With their encouragement, Stiles invites Heather and Madison to dinner at the apartment. He cleans like a whirlwind, vacuuming and dusting and mopping until every inch of the floor is spotless and as tidy as he can manage. 

Then, Madison informs him Derek asked if she could meet Stiles at her hotel instead. Kira accidentally spilled the beans, or so her caps-locked, emoji-filled mess of an apology text says.

Stiles stands up, dropping his phone to the couch.

“Stiles,” Scott says, wary and anxious, “Where are you going?”

Stiles doesn’t answer, feet carrying him to the front door. His anger settles down like a storm, getting stronger as he climbs the single flight of stairs to the sixth floor. He walks into the apartment without knocking first, slamming Derek’s door so hard, the horseshoe above bangs against the wall.

Derek appears in the hall, thankfully alone.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Stiles shouts, giving Derek a shove with a spark of magic that sends him flying onto the couch, the back of which slams into the wall. “You have no right to treat Madison and Heather like - like some kind of enemy!”

“I’m trying to protect what’s mine,” Derek says, standing, Stiles’ magic still biting at his chest. “My pack, my territory. I’m trying to protect _you!_ ”

“It’s not your job to protect me!” Stiles spits out, sending Derek tripping backwards. “I can take care of myself!” 

The pressure in the room drops as Stiles’ magic recedes, and he draws a hand through his hair. “Derek - do you realize how important this is to me? This is the first alpha who’s ever showed interest in _me,_ and not the power I inherited from my mother. Who looks at Scott like someone who could be an asset to their pack and not just some poor, hopeless _omega._ ” He spits out the word like a curse.

“I don’t think that,” Derek growls, like the soft, warning thunderclap before the storm breaks.

“So what?!” Stiles’ chest heaves, and he steps up to Derek, close enough that his breath heats Stiles’ skin in a cruel mimicry of the last time they were here. “ _You’re_ not my alpha.”

Derek reels back, claws biting into his palms as they clench into fists, tight enough that blood drips down his fingers. His eyes bleed red. “Get. Out.”

“With pleasure,” Stiles hisses, needing to have the last word. He turns on his heel and stomps out. 

Stiles almost smacks Scott in the face when he throws open the door, rushes into the living room, and immediately reaches for his phone.

“Nope,” Scott says, yanking the phone out of his hand. “No way. No rash decisions, not while you’re this angry. That’s _your_ rule.”

“You don’t even know who I was going to call,” Stiles says, making a reach for the phone. 

Scott holds it behind his back. “You were going to call Madison and tell her we’re running with her on the full moon.”

“Gimme the phone.” Stiles tries to reach around, and Scott spins, keeping his back to the wall.

“No.”

“Scotty, give me the phone.”

_“No.”_

Letting out a scream of frustration, Stiles tackles Scott to the floor. His magic flares, a wild, uncontrollable thing, crackling along Scott’s skin and causing the lights to flicker. Scott rolls, managing to hold Stiles against the floor without smothering him.

“Breathe, Stiles,” Scott says. “Come on. Ground yourself.” Calm oozes down their bond, warming Stiles like the sun. He shuts his eyes, inhales, and imagines his magic flowing back into his body through his hands. He exhales and presses his palms and forehead to the floor, forcing the excess energy through five floors of concrete, wood, and plaster to the rich, hard earth below.

“Fuck,” Stiles whispers; he hasn’t lost control of his magic in _years._

Scott helps Stiles to his feet, holding him steady when the room spins. He walks him over to the couch, then goes into the kitchen, taking Stiles’ phone. He returns a few minutes later with a glass of water.

“I told Madison you weren’t feeling well.” Scott hands over the glass. “She said to give her a call when you feel better so you can reschedule.”

Stiles nods, taking a sip of his water. Guilt gnaws at his insides. He’s fucking everything up.

“I’m only going to ask this once,” Scott says, waiting until Stiles looks at him to continue, “and then I won’t bring it up again. Are you going to say yes to Madison because you want to? Or because you want to get back at Derek?”

Stiles exhales, tugging a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. Both, I guess.” He shakes his head. “I _should_ want this. It should be a no-brainer. We’ve been waiting for an opportunity like this for _years._ But…”

“But she’s not Derek,” Scott finishes. Stiles groans, throwing himself over Scott’s back.

“I’m an idiot,” he mutters into Scott’s shirt.

“You’re not an idiot. You can’t control who you bond with.”

“We’re not bound yet. Not completely. I can still break it.” The thought curdles in his stomach like dread.

Scott shifts until he’s laying on the couch, tugging Stiles to lie next to him, both of their feet knocking into each other as they dangle off of the edge. “You don’t want that.”

“And he doesn’t want me.”

“That’s not true. Bonds don’t just go one way. You taught me that.” Scott sounds so earnest, so sure, Stiles can’t decide if he wants to hug him or punch him. 

He settles for an aggressive head-butt against his shoulder. “Then why didn’t he ask me to be his emissary?”

Scott sighs and shakes his head. "I don’t know.” He slaps his hand down on Stiles’ shoulder with a squeeze. “I’ll support you. You know that. No matter what you decide.”

Stiles _does_ know that, like he knows his own name, Scott’s loyalty as sure as the rotation of the planets and the sun rising in the east.

“Love you too, bro,” Stiles says, falling asleep right there, wound together with Scott on the couch.

He wakes up the next morning with a raging headache, neck cramped from sleeping in an awkward position, and his mouth tasting like death. Still, he agrees to meet Madison for brunch, with full intention of coming home and spending the rest of the day alone with Scott in his pajamas. He takes a long, hot shower to try and make himself presentable to the rest of the world.

Of course, the elevator is working when he least wants it to, doors opening to reveal Derek and a woman Stiles assumes is his sister. She holds the door open, allowing he and Scott to slide through after a moment’s hesitation. 

Stiles presses himself into a corner opposite Derek, standing almost on top of Scott and holding in his stomach so no part of their bodies touch. Derek glares a hole in the wall, jaw tense.

“I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Cora,” the woman says, holding out her hand with a sickly sweet smile so Stiles has no choice but to lean forward. His arm brushes against Derek’s, sending a frisson of heat down his spine. Derek tugs his arm closer to his body and shoves his hand into his pocket.

“Stiles,” he says, and Cora squeezes his offered hand so tightly, his tendons grind against his bones. Scott growls when Stiles tugs his hand away, flexing his fingers. 

“My bad,” she says, flippant. Stiles huffs, shoving his way out as soon as they reach the lobby. Scott follows, muttering about asshole alphas and how it apparently runs in the family. 

That night, he tells Madison they’ll accept her offer to run with her pack on the full moon.

He should be jumping up and down uncontrollably with his arms in the air, while Scott runs a victory lap around the park. Madison is young and progressive. Working with her could be life changing. This is everything he’s ever wanted - a pack who welcomes Scott with open arms and zero pity, an alpha who respects Stiles and his unbreakable relationship to Deucalion’s pack.

But that alpha isn’t Derek. Derek, whose pack he can feel in the park somewhere else, a miserable flicker at the back of his mind he can’t ignore, and they’re _not even fully bonded yet._ Scott’s sadness seeps through at Isaac's absence, creating a feedback loop of dejection that lowers Stiles' spirits even further.

“Try to seem excited.”

Stiles startles when Madison appears at his elbow, tugging her shirt back over her head. She’d gone full wolf the moment they hit the park, running and tumbling across the grass with the rest of her pack.

“No, I am - of course I am!” He shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts. “Thank you for inviting us. I know how important this is.”

Madison stares at Stiles like she’s trying to take him apart piece by piece with only the power of her mind. Stiles squirms, resisting the urge to throw up actual mental blocks. 

She sighs, guiding Stiles over to one of the benches. She sits beside him with her legs crossed. “Stiles - this isn’t working.”

Stiles’ heartbeat pounds in his chest. He can’t fuck this up. Not for Scott. He _can’t._ “No. No, I -- I’m sorry, we’re just not used to spending the full moon with other wolves.”

“What about the Hales?” 

Stiles’ pulse trips over itself, betraying him.

Madison reaches across, placing her hand over his on his knee. “You don’t want this. Not with me.”

“Yes I do,” Stiles says, voice edging on desperate.

“Not the same way you want this with Derek.” He bites his lip, hard. “You know better than anyone how precarious magic can be. You reek of power when you’re with him. I’m not the alpha your magic has chosen. Neither of us can change that just by wishing.”

Scott bounds up to the bench, sits at Stiles' side, and lays his head in his lap. “I’m sorry,” Stiles says, voice cracking, not sure which one he’s speaking to.

Madison squeezes his hand. “There isn’t anything to forgive.” She kisses his head, like a benediction. “You deserve to be happy, Stiles.” 

Madison gets up and rejoins her pack, and Stiles buries his face in his hands. Scott whines. 

He doesn’t say a word the entire way home. He lets Scott drive the Jeep, nerves too jangled up for him to concentrate on not driving them off the road. Scott keeps shooting him glances out of the corner of his eye, but otherwise allows Stiles to stew.

They circle the block for half an hour before Scott finds a parking spot under the train tracks - which means Stiles’ car is going to be covered in bird shit within the hour.

“Sorry,” Scott says, wincing, and Stiles pats the hood in apology, shoving his hands in his pockets as they walk the two blocks towards their building.

Scott heads up the stairs, pausing when he realizes Stiles isn’t following.

“You go ahead. I need some air.”

“You sure, dude?” 

Stiles sighs. “Not really,” he says, because he’s not so sure of anything anymore. He heads out to the courtyard, to the swingset on the grass near the back. The support bar creaks in protest when he sits down, but holds his weight just fine.

He wishes a lot of things.

He wishes he could have shoved his stupid feelings down far enough that he could bond with Madison’s pack, and not thrown away the best opportunity he’s been presented with since he met Derek fucking Hale.

He wishes he never bonded with Derek in the first place.

He wishes...

He wishes his mom were here to tell him everything would be okay.

A twig snaps, and Stiles glances up, huffing out a breath. Scott lopes across the grass, nosing at Stiles’ hip when he gets close enough before he lies down with his head on Stiles’ shoe. Stiles reaches down to pet his head. He rocks back and forth, looks up, and watches the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be the last chapter, but it kind of exploded on me, and I ended up having to split it in two. The actual last chapter is about halfway finished. Depending on my work/school schedule, it should be up either next Thursday or the one after that.
> 
> Until then, feel free to come hang out with me on [tumblr!](http://jacyevans.tumblr.com)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to dream-mancer for the beta <3 This is finally it, folks.
> 
> **  
> **  
> [[Mood Music]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kt49OzWzBaA)  
> 

Derek grits his teeth, reminding himself that he loves his sister.

The evening of the full moon, Cora takes one look at her brother and whistles low in her throat.

“Jesus,” she says, wrinkling her nose, “I can actually smell the sexual frustration.”

Derek ignores her; Malia, full coyote, gets under his feet, tripping him up every other step so he can’t flee the scene. The pack has been feeding off of his restlessness, getting into skirmishes and snapping at each other at every turn. Malia and Isaac shifted to their fur last night, and haven’t changed back since.

“He’s running with another pack,” Cora says, jumping in front of him and cutting off his escape. Kira darts around them, wisely staying out of the line of fire. Malia sits on his foot. “Tell me that doesn’t bother you.”

Derek’s slams his hand against the wall. Of course it bothers him. His bond with Stiles is like an itch he can’t scratch, obnoxious and ever-present. He squeezes his hand tighter, nails threatening to rip into claws as he resists the urge to find Madison and fight for what’s his.

Except Stiles isn’t his, not really; Derek’s skin feels too tight over his bones.

Cora sighs. “Derek--”

“Don’t.” It’s too close to nightfall, and the moon pulls on his muscles and bones, making his entire body ache.

The pack heads out to the park for the full moon, but Derek _can’t,_ not with Stiles and Scott running with someone else. Boyd takes the lead as his second, throwing a knowing glance his way. He corrals Malia towards the door when she starts making an attempt to drag Derek out by her teeth.

He and Cora run around the courtyard, thankfully devoid of people. There isn’t much space to run, but they make do, chasing each other from one end to the next. Cora tries to entice him into a race by flicking him in the face with her tail. He snarls, nipping at her fur harder than he means to. His pack’s misery echoes down the bonds from halfway across the city, Stiles and even Scott joining the mix and making his head throb. He throws back his head, letting out a howl of despair that echoes off of the surrounding buildings. More than one face appears at the windows, and Cora nudges him in the belly until he heads back inside the building to the maintenance closet where they stowed their clothes.

“Go on up,” Cora says as she tugs her shirt over her head. “I need to get something out of my car.”

Derek nods, glad the elevator is working, for once. The full moon always energizes him, makes keeping still after sundown nigh impossible. Tonight, he doesn’t think he could muster up the energy to walk up those stairs if he tried.

He kicks off his shoes and collapses onto the couch, tugging the blanket off of the back and draping it over his legs. He brings the material to his nose, inhaling the scents of his pack. 

The door opens and he sits back, brow furrowed when Cora walks into the room with one arm behind her back. She shifts from foot to foot, smelling of something like lemon or orange, _apprehensive._

“I need to show you something,” Cora says, keeping her hand behind her back. “Promise you won’t freak out?”

“Not when you ask me like that,” Derek says. Cora takes a deep breath and brings her hidden hand forwards. Derek inhales, forgetting to breathe.

His hands shake as he takes the book from Cora’s hand, a leather-bound photo album so full of pictures and other mementos that the pages don’t even touch anymore. His grandmother used to put them together, spending painstaking hours mulling over the pages. He hasn’t seen any of them since the last time he was in their family vault, two days before the fire.

He doesn’t open the book to look at the pictures. He’s already so fragile; one wrong move and he might fly apart. “Where did you get this?” Derek asks, voice strangled. He rubs the tips of his fingers over the age-worn edges of the cover.

“I went back to Beacon Hills.”

Derek’s head snaps up; his heart lodges somewhere in his throat at the mere thought of his little sister going back home. _“Why?”_

Cora shrugs, a quick, jerking motion. “I needed - I don’t know. Closure. Something. Lydia came with me.” She takes a deep breath. “I saw the house. What was left of it.”

Derek’s fingers spasm around the edges of the pages. “Cora, don’t--”

“Shut up and listen to me, okay?”

Like he could speak right now anyway. He’s too busy keeping his heart from bursting out of his chest and running out of the apartment to worry about something like talking.

Cora sits down beside him, rubbing her hands over her knees as she speaks. “Being back there - it put some things in perspective.” She shakes her head. “What happened with Kate wasn’t your fault. I think I knew that all along.”

“Then why did you leave?” Derek snaps. He understands anger, that hot boiling under his skin. Anger he’s good at.

“Because I was angry!” Cora’s eyes flash, dark hair falling into her face, looking so much like Laura in that moment that his chest tightens. “I was young and hurt and stupid, and I wanted somebody to blame, and it was so much easier to blame you. I didn’t want to remember and I needed to get away - from this, from the memories of our family screaming at me on all sides, and yes, from you.”

Derek flinches back, aborting the movement a moment too late.

“I thought getting away would make things easier. Better. It didn’t. I was miserable.”

“So why didn’t you come home?” Derek says, aiming for neutral and falling wide off the mark.

“Pride.” She reaches towards him until she can cup his face in her hands, gripping tight when he tries to pull away. “I need you to hear me - I don’t blame you. Not anymore. I forgave you a long time ago.” She shakes his head when his eyes skitter away from her face. “Do you hear me? _I. Forgive. You._ I didn’t think I needed to say the words anymore. I thought you knew.”

“You shouldn’t,” Derek says, throat rough like it’s cut with shards of glass. “I don’t.”

“That isn’t your choice, Derek. It’s _mine.”_

Derek shakes his head and folds like a house of cards, falling into his sister and pressing his face into her throat, arms tight around her back. Cora curls a hand around the back of his neck, a warm, reassuring weight, the way his mother and then Laura used to.

“You should have been the alpha,” Derek mumbles, and Cora snorts so loud, her breath disturbs the hair near his cheek.

“I would have made a horrible alpha. I don’t have the patience for it. Besides, if the power was meant to be mine, it would have come to me. Laura gave it to you.”

“I have no idea why,” Derek says. Cora slaps at the back of his head. He yelps.

“Look around, you self-sacrificing idiot. Look at what you’ve done for your pack. Hell, look at Scott and Stiles. They don’t just follow you out of blind loyalty. They care about you, the same way you care about them.”

Thinking about Stiles makes his stomach roll; the bond at the back of his head is about as dim as a solar flare. “You know, calling me an idiot negates your opinion,” he says, rather than comment.

Cora’s glare could single-handedly destroy the rest of the Amazon. “God, you’re stubborn. Remind me why I’m moving home again.”

“Because you’re a glutton for punishment.”

“Stiles is sitting in the courtyard downstairs,” Cora says, and Derek sits up so fast, he gets whiplash. “He didn’t join the McKnight pack.”

He can barely find his voice. Again. Derek’s batting a thousand tonight. “What?”

“I ran into Scott on my way inside.” She grimaces, scent turning bitter with embarrassment; she doesn’t offer an explanation. “He said Madison let Stiles go. Told him to come back here - to you. You need to go talk to him. And you need to tell him _everything.”_

Derek places the album onto the side table with care, folding the blanket so every side lies flat. He wants nothing more than to run downstairs and beg Stiles to be his emissary.

The thought fills him with heat and cold all at once. “I’m scared,” Derek whispers, looking at Cora, “Of trusting someone like that again.”

Cora squeezes his arm. “Derek. Stiles isn’t Kate.” She gives him a little nudge in the calf with her foot. “You deserve to be happy. So _go._ Go get your emissary.”

“He doesn’t want to be my emissary.”

She rolls her eyes to the ceiling. “Gods, I’m not even going to dignify that with an argument. Only you could be so deliberately obtuse. Maybe - and I’m just spitballing here - but maybe you should let him decide what he wants for himself.”

Derek huffs, nudging her right back, only harder. “And if he doesn’t want m-- us?”

“Then I’ll break his legs,” Cora says, cheerful smile broken by the sharp teeth in her mouth. She yanks him to his feet then gives him a shove in the lower back. 

He trips forwards, grabbing onto the arm of the couch for support. “Stop pushing me around.”

She picks up his jacket and tosses it in his face. “If I don’t, who will?”

Rolling his eyes heavenward, Derek heads for the door, dragging the jacket over his shoulders. His footsteps grow more and more leaden as he presses the elevator button to take him down to the basement. The door opens into the maintenance hallway, leading out into the courtyard.

Derek skirts around the dumpsters, making a face at the smell.

“--did the right thing.”

He stops in his tracks at the sound of Stiles’ voice, ducking back behind the side of the building. Even if he strains his hearing, he can’t make out the voice on the other end of the phone.

Stiles drags a hand through his hair. “He doesn’t even want me,” Stiles says, misery potent even from fifty feet away, and Derek has to resist the urge to swoop in and tug Stiles into his arms.

Stiles heaves a sigh. “I _know,_ Dad.” There’s a pause. “Yeah. I will. Love you, too.” He hangs up the phone, pressing his closed fist to his forehead, his other hand disappearing down at his side. Derek waits another beat before walking back out.

The swing Stiles is sitting on barely holds his weight. Derek bought the set second-hand, built it up slowly over the last few years. There’s even a tire swing at the end of the row.

Derek approaches silently, while Stiles rocks slowly back and forth on the ball of one foot, Scott laid out with his head on the other.

Scott glances up when he approaches and growls low in his throat. Stiles pets his head.

“Go away,” Stiles says without looking up, like speaking takes all his remaining energy. Dark circles stand out like bruises under his eyes.

“I want to talk to you,” Derek says, stopping in his tracks when Scott gets to his feet. He bares his teeth, eyes bright and eerily yellow in the moonlight - protecting what’s his.

“Good for you.”

Derek sighs, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jacket. The leather crinkles as he moves. “Stiles, please?”

Stiles clenches his jaw, fingers twisting in the fur at the base of Scott’s tail.

Eventually, he lets go. “Go, Scotty. I’ll meet you upstairs.”

Scott whines. Stiles flicks at his tail.

Scott huffs and shakes out his fur. He bares his teeth at Derek before loping around the building and out of sight.

“Come to gloat?” Stiles asks, still refusing to meet Derek’s eye. “Because if so, you can fuck off. I don’t want to hear it.”

“No.” Derek sits down on the swing beside him, taking in Stiles’ clenched jaw, one hand bunched up in the sleeve of his coat. The other twists at the scarf around his neck.

Derek stares down at his hands, focusing on keeping them still against his thighs.

“When we talked that night after --” He cuts himself off when at the wave of longing that rises unbidden in his chest. He shoves it back down. “I never told you everything.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “And I should care because…” 

Derek swallows past the lump in his throat. “Kate. She used magic to start the fire.”

Stiles looks up, into Derek’s face, eyes wide and ire abandoned. “Oh god. I wondered how -- she was an emissary?”

Derek shakes his head. “No. But she knew someone who was. They leant her their power.”

That much power should have killed both of them - the emissary relinquishing so much of their magic, and a human with zero inclination for magic taking that power into her veins. Somehow, Kate, at least, survived. Only a handful of emissaries on the entire planet had the power to pull off a spell of that magnitude, and not even Talia’s own measured up.

Kate refused to offer up the name of her accomplice, even after admitting they were the ones who performed the locater spell that helped her find the remaining Hales in New York. Derek spent years after the fire, trying to figure out what happened that night. Before she died, Laura told him he could either drive himself crazy, or learn to live with the mystery. He chose the latter.

Stiles shakes his head, the pensive lines of his mouth thinning as his eyes narrow into a harsh glare. “Why are you telling me this? To make me feel bad for you?”

“No, because I want you to understand why I didn’t - I couldn’t -” Derek huffs and gets to his feet. He paces back and forth in front of Stiles, who remains silent until he can’t bear the lack of response any longer.

“Ask me to be your emissary?”

Derek stops pacing and meets his eyes. “Yes.”

Stiles stares down at his feet. Derek follows his gaze to his black Chucks, the sole tearing away from the uppers, then back up to where Stiles is rubbing his left thumb over the hummingbird tattoo on his right wrist. He stinks of frustration, beneath the cinnamon-wet-grass smell that Derek could pick out of a crowd, as easily as anyone else in his pack. Their bond thrums at the back of his head, no less strong for their distance the past few weeks.

His mother talked about bonds like this, too, how alphas could go an entire lifetime without finding that one emissary who made them feel whole. Even she wasn’t so lucky.

“How will I know?” Laura asked, brow furrowed. Derek sat at the other end of the couch with his homework, pretending not to listen.

“When you find them, you’ll know,” she said to Laura, brushing the hair out of her eyes.

How could Derek not have known? A bond couldn’t happen if he didn’t want it, too.

Like Cora said - he was still blaming himself for everything that happened to his family. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to forgive himself, but maybe this can be a start. 

For once, he takes his little sister’s advice.

“I bonded with you,” Derek says, and Stiles inhales sharply, breath shivering through his chest as he looks up. “I didn’t mean to. It just -- happened.”

Stiles’ Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “I know. I bonded with you, too. That’s why I don’t understand why you didn’t just ask me.”

“Because I don’t -- know how to do this.”

“It’s easy.” He clears his throat and waves his arm at Derek in a dramatic gesture. _“Stiles, will you be my emissary?”_

Derek rolls his eyes. “Easy for you to say,” he mutters. He takes a deep breath and steels himself. “Stiles, will you--”

_“No.”_

Derek’s throat closes around the words that didn’t have a chance to make their way out into the open air.

Stiles shakes his head. “Derek, you were - you were an _asshole.”_

“I know.” The words come out mangled and almost unintelligible.

“I can’t just forget--”

“I _know,_ ” Derek snarls, hands clenching into tight fists on his thighs so his claws dig into his palms. How could he have thought things would be so easy? He doesn’t deserve this. He never did.

Derek startles when Stiles touches his hand, forcing his fingers to unclench. Then, heedless of the claws that could shred his skin in an instant, he covers Derek’s fingers with his own.

“I’m not saying no,” Stiles says, and Derek’s eyes jump up from his hand to Stiles’ face. “I’m saying I need time. So do you.”

Derek lets the breath leave his lungs slowly. Stiles’ eyes bore into his own. Then he cocks an eyebrow, as if daring Derek to demand an answer now, and the expression is so perfectly _Stiles_ that Derek can’t help but laugh a little.

He can be patient. He _can._

“Okay.”

* * *

Stiles can’t. He just _can’t._

 _Give me time._ What the hell was he _thinking?_ Now that he knows being the Hale pack emissary is basically a sure thing, being around Derek is akin to torture.

He and Derek skirt around each other, not quite sure how to act. On his part, Derek seems insistent on courting Stiles properly: bringing Stiles coffee when he’s in the middle of a studying binge and forcing him to take breaks every two hours when he gets sucked into his work. He buys Stiles lunch while he’s at his internship, dropping it off at the counter with a smile, while Stiles’ coworkers sigh with envy.

“Is this a bribe?” Stiles asks as he picks up a cup of _Blue Moon’s_ coffee, grinning at Derek’s shifting feet and averted eyes. “Because it's working.”

“You know what’s not working? You. Remedy that,” his supervisor says as he walks past Stiles to greet the customers who just walked in the door.

Stiles makes a face at his back, and Derek chuckles, letting him get back to work.

Stiles goes out of his way to keep the peace with Derek’s betas, bribing them with hot chocolate made from his mother’s secret recipe and Melissa’s famous Christmas cookies. The pack welcomes he and Scott back into their lives as if they were never gone. Erica cuddles up into his side any time she’s within touching distance. Malia still glares, though at least she doesn’t growl at him anymore. 

Scott is just as unforgiving, shooting daggers at Derek whenever he enters a room. Derek endures his ire with surprising grace, throwing Isaac at him as a distraction. Isaac doesn’t mind, considering Stiles comes back from his last final to find him and Scott half naked and sucking face on the couch.

“My eyes!” Stiles yelps, covering half of his face. “My eyes!”

Isaac falls off of the couch in his haste to hide. Stiles catches sight of the triskele tattooed on his upper thigh before it disappears.

Scott shields his chest behind a pillow. “Dude! What are you doing here?”

“I live here, dick,” Stiles snaps. Isaac pokes his head up from the floor.

“You were supposed to be at your internship!”

“He closed early for Hanukah.” Stiles peeks out from between his fingers before shutting them tightly. “We talked about this – no sex on the couch. I _eat_ on that couch.”

“You’re just jealous it isn’t you and Derek naked on this couch,” Isaac says, grinning at Scott when he bursts out laughing.

Stiles’ face heats up with his blush. His feelings for Derek are common knowledge at this point, considering his haste to leave the apartment and take a long, cold shower the last time he walked in on Derek exercising without his shirt. Malia has given up glaring in favor of teasing him without mercy.

“You – I –“ He growls and points at the smirk on Isaac’s face. “Fuck off.”

“No thanks.”

“Put some goddamn pants on!” Stiles hisses, stomping out of the apartment and up the stairs. He knocks three times before Derek’s face appears at the door.

“I’m going to kill your beta,” Stiles says as a greeting.

Derek raises an eyebrow, stepping out of his way to allow him into the apartment. “Hello to you, too.” He shuts the door, then follows Stiles into the kitchen, where he’s thrown his bag on the floor under the window. “Do I owe you another new couch?”

“Yes,” Stiles snaps, opening cabinets and raiding them one by one. When he doesn’t find what he’s looking for, he goes to the fridge, pulling out onions, garlic, and every vegetable he can get his hands on. There are several pounds of chicken defrosting on the bottom shelf, and he drops the vegetables in favor of grabbing those, too. He piles them up on the counter. “Where do you keep your pots?”

“What are you doing?”

“Making chicken soup. Your kitchen is bigger than mine. Do you mind?”

“Depends,” Derek drawls, “Are you going to poison my beta?”

“Yes.” He isn’t angry at Isaac and Scott, not really. Between finals and now this… _thing_ with him and Derek, he just doesn’t have room in his brain to compartmentalize anything else.

He sweeps the vegetables up into his arms and drops them on top of the wooden cutting board on the counter. “Shut up and chop these.”

Derek shakes his head and starts chopping, but Stiles catches the tiny smile that breaks across his mouth when he thinks Stiles isn’t looking.

By the time the rest of the pack start trickling in, most of his anger has faded. Cooking gives him something to focus on when his brain is too crowded for any other information to fit - with the added bonus that he knows exactly what his father is eating.

When the soup is cooked to his satisfaction, Stiles turns off the burner, then steps into a corner.

“Dinner’s ready!” He shouts, ducking at the stampede of werewolf feet down the hall. He waits until everyone finishes to grab a bowl for himself, then drops down on the couch between Boyd and Erica. Cora squeezes between Stiles and Boyd.

“Nope,” Boyd says, standing and moving to sit on the floor across the room.

“I’m out,” Erica says, following.

Stiles’ brow furrows “What?” Then Cora slings her arm around his shoulders, a fierce smile on her face. He shoots her a glance out of the corner of his eye, soup spoon held aloft.

Cora snorts and crosses her legs. “Stop looking at me like I’m about to disembowel you.”

Stiles sticks the spoon in his mouth and speaks with his mouth full. “Stop looking at me like you’re about to disembowel me.”

Cora makes a face. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you it isn’t polite to speak with your mouth full?”

Stiles snorts and swallows, which results in him getting soup up his nose. He coughs, waving away Derek’s concern, while Boyd laughs.

Cora slaps his back. “You okay there, hotshot?”

Stiles gives her the finger. When he finally stops coughing, he sits up, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Fine. And I’ll have you know, my manners are impeccable.”

“You are such a liar,” Cora says with a snort. “You just snorted food up your nose!”

“By accident!” He flails his hand in her general direction. “And what do you call that noise, dainty?”

“I’ll have you know--”

They continue on like this through the rest of dinner. Derek saves Stiles’ soup bowl twice from certain doom, while Scott and Boyd add their unsolicited commentary.

“Here we have Stiles in his natural habitat--”

“Cora’s got him on the ropes now--”

“Twenty bucks says Stiles still manages to spill his soup.”

“You’re on, McCall.”

Stiles flips them off and does exactly that. Boyd coughs up the money with grace.

“You suck, dude,” Stiles grumbles, thankful there was only a spoonful left in the bowl as he leans over to mop broth off of the floor.

“Yeah he does,” Erica says, making a lewd gesture with her tongue. Isaac shoves her hard in the shoulder while everyone else laughs.

Stiles rights himself and finds Cora smirking, first at her brother, then back at Stiles.

He raises an eyebrow. “What?”

Cora takes a slice of bread, slathers butter all over it, takes a huge bite, and swallows. “Stiles, I like you.”

Stiles grins to himself, falling backwards when Cora leans into his space, eyes flashing and teeth sharp.

“But if you so much as think of hurting my brother or my pack, I’ll tear your throat out. With my teeth. Clear?”

“Crystal,” Stiles chokes out, heart pounding.

Her face goes back to normal. “Good.” She pops the last piece of bread in her mouth, smirking when Stiles presses a hand to his chest.

* * *

Derek glares at his sister from across the room. He mimes strangling her neck, but she just shrugs and mouths, _Love you, too._

He appreciates the gesture – really. If their positions were reversed, he would have Stiles pressed up against a wall with an arm across his chest and – nope. Derek shakes his head, trying to dislodge the image, but the smirk on his betas’ faces says he isn’t successful.

“Hey,” Scott says, and Derek glances up to find Scott standing over him. He gestures his head in the general direction of the other end of the apartment. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

“Sure,” Derek says, pushing to his feet. Cora starts to stand, but he waves her back in her seat. 

“Go back to torturing Stiles.”

“I object!” Stiles shouts. Derek smirks. He goes as far as heading out into the hall, where there’s a lesser chance of them being overheard by his well-meaning but nosy betas.

“What’s up?”

Scott folds his arms over his chest in a failed attempt to look more intimidating. “Look – I know you and Stiles are still working things out. I’m happy he’s happy. But he’s been through a lot. Too much.”

“I know –“

“No you don’t. Not everything.” Not the same way I do, he means, and Derek can’t help the flash of white-hot jealousy that rolls through him.

Scott scents his envy on the air and raises an eyebrow. “Stiles doesn’t trust easily. You have to earn that trust. He’s more loyal than anyone I know, and he deserves an alpha who understands how grateful they should be to deserve him.” He steps close to Derek, which only serves to exemplify their height difference, like a puppy threatening a pitbull. All bark and no bite. Derek barely bites back another smirk. “So if you hurt him again, Cora won’t be the only person ripping someone’s throat out.”

Scott’s heartbeat doesn’t waver, beating steady and calm. The beginnings of Derek’s smile falls. The two of them were alone for years. Scott and Stiles, alone against the world, Stiles said, him just an emissary-in-training to Scott’s omega, with no alpha to anchor him down. He’s strong willed to survive the way he did, and unswervingly loyal to a fault.

Derek’s been spending too much time with Stiles, considering the first thing he thinks of when he looks at Scott is _you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry._

“I won’t. I promise.” He amends that statement, hearing his mother whispering about not making any promises he can’t afford to keep. “Not on purpose, anyway.” 

That seems to be enough for Scott to at least extend an olive branch, for Stiles’ sake. He starts hanging around the pack more, visiting Isaac upstairs rather than the other way around. He and Kira get along smashingly, bonding over people mistaking their size and kindness for being a pushover.

The elevator is as faulty as ever, breaking down every other day. Boyd takes charge of helping people up the stairs, carrying shopping carts, bags of groceries or laundry, and occasionally people. Isaac helps Lori’s husband lift their double stroller, while Melinda laughs so loud, the sound carries all the way up to the sixth floor. Her baby sister sleeps through the whole thing. 

A storm blows out the power on a Saturday night, and Derek hears Stiles - and some of his other residents, but mostly Stiles - screaming curses through the floorboards. 

“I think he’s angry,” Boyd drawls. Derek groans, preparing for a long night.

Despite his initial conniption, Stiles offers to help. He and Scott knock on doors and check on the other residents, while Derek gets the power back online. He finds Stiles an hour later on the second floor, speaking rapid-fire Italian with Dolores, who smiles in delight. Aria makes faces at him from behind her back. He sticks out his tongue, and Dolores laughs.

“You and Derek should come visit some time. I wouldn’t mind the company.” Dolores waves at Derek over his shoulder.

Stiles turns, a flush settling over his cheeks when he sees Derek watching. Warmth spreads through Derek’s chest.

“I didn’t know you could speak Italian,” he says, once Dolores retreats back into her apartment and shuts the door.

“There are a lot of things you don’t know about me, big guy.” He winks, hips swaying as he heads up the stairs. Derek’s face heats, the butterflies in his stomach flapping overtime. He hasn’t felt attracted to anyone in a long time.

He walks into the apartment, still in a daze. Erica takes one look at him and rolls her eyes to the ceiling.

“You’re killing me.” She shoves him lightly in the shoulder when Derek ignores her in favor of ducking into the fridge, making sure the milk didn’t go bad. “Just ask him already.”

“What, right now?” Derek swings the door shut.

 _“Yes,”_ she says, either missing his sarcasm or neglecting it entirely. “Go right down there and kiss him. Just lay one on him.” She puckers her lips, then darts forwards, pressing her wet mouth to his cheek.

Derek rubs his face with a scowl while she laughs. “No.”

“Why?” She whines. “Isaac got to third base before you even rounded first. That’s sad, Alpha.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Isaac asks, chomping on a bite of apple as he rounds the doorway. He tosses the core in the trash.

“That you’re a hopeless puppy.” Erica laughs when Isaac growls and tackles her to the floor. Derek steps over them, well practiced in the art of avoiding flailing arms and legs while they head-lock and elbow each other into submission.

“She’s right you know,” Cora says as he rounds the corner, waiting her turn to pounce, and Derek heaves a sigh. “Pull the plug already.”

Derek drops onto the couch, grabbing the newspaper off of the coffee table. “He’s not ready.”

“The two of you spend half your time making googly eyes at each other. Trust me, he’s ready.”

“We do not make googly eyes,” Derek mutters, burying his face behind the paper.

“Do too!”

“Do not.”

“Do too!”

Derek growls.

Cora’s laughter rings through the rest of the house.

* * *

The last full moon of the year falls on the Winter solstice, something none of them would probably ever see again in their lifetime. Stiles’ mother called it the Long Night’s Moon, said it meant good fortune and new beginnings - brightening up the sky on the darkest day of the year.

Derek invites Scott and Stiles up for dinner, and to help decorate the apartment for Christmas. 

“It’s an old pack tradition,” Cora says, dropping a plastic storage box onto the table. Stiles remembers solstice nights with his mother in Deucalion’s house, placing ornaments on the tree, his father lifting him to branches his small arms couldn’t reach. A sad smile tugs across his mouth.

Derek waits until the rest of the pack are neck-deep in decorations to pull Stiles to the side. 

“What’s wrong?”

Stiles shrugs, folding his arms over his chest. “Just thinking about my mom. She would have loved this.”

Derek says nothing, just squeezes his arm.

They leave for the park together, Stiles sitting in the passenger seat of the Camaro, while Erica argues that he can’t call shotgun before they even leave the apartment. Several times throughout the drive, he catches Derek staring, but at each inquisitive look, Derek just shrugs and smiles. 

The pack tumbles through the park entrance; Stiles bares his teeth at the protesters and flicks sparks from his fingers, laughing when one woman rears back in shock.

“Really?” Scott asks, but he can’t quite keep the smile off of his face. Stiles jumps on his back, getting him in a headlock and rubbing his knuckles on the top of his head. Stiles yelps when Scott twists around, taking the brunt of the fall as he flips Stiles off of his back and to the ground.

“You okay?” Cora asks.

Scott springs back up, walking into the nearest tent to change. Stiles wheezes, giving her the okay sign with his fingers. “I’m super.”

She reaches down and takes his hand, yanking him to his feet. “Sure you are, hotshot.”

“I am! I am great, I am stupendous, I am - _oh my god, must you do that?”_

“Do what?” Erica asks, twirling her shirt in her hand as she saunters into the tent in her bra. Cora grins, strips, and follows. Stiles facepalms.

“Nudity doesn’t really bother you,” Kira says, waiting with him outside while everyone else goes in to undress and stow their clothes. “Does it? I mean, you’ve been around Scott when he’s shifted plenty of times.”

“No, _sudden_ nudity bothers me. And that doesn’t mean I want his dick in my face.”

“Well, maybe not _his,”_ Kira says, and Stiles almost swallows his tongue. She skips off when Malia exits the tent, laughing the way only a coyote could.

“I hate your pack,” Stiles says to Derek when he exits the tent, fully shifted and shaking out his fur. He chuffs as if to say, _No, you don’t._ Stiles ruffs up the fur on his head the wrong way. Derek growls, crouching down on his front legs.

“Hey - Derek don’t you do that - _Derek_ \- shit!” Stiles flees just before Derek takes off, chasing Stiles through other packs and around benches. He manages to get across the street and half a patch of grass before Derek catches him, gripping the back of his pants and taking him down to the ground. He rolls Stiles onto his back, pressing his front paws to Stiles’ shoulders and snarling in his face.

“Okay, okay! I’m sorry!”

Derek stops growling and licks Stiles’ nose, sitting back with a wolfy grin.

“Eugh! Your breath reeks.” Stiles drags his palm down his face. He sits back on his hands, heart pounding. His chest aches from the cold as he tries to catch his breath. “I’m just going to lay here under this tree and try and keep what’s left of my pride, if that’s alright with you.”

Derek licks him again, sending up a short howl before taking off after his pack. Stiles watches, delighted to find that unlike that first full moon, Derek _plays:_ nipping at Malia’s heels and rough-housing with Boyd and Isaac. He even pounces on Scott, letting the beta get the upper hand and rolling over to show his belly. Scott takes a couple of steps backwards, stunned at the blatant show of trust. Cora takes advantage of his distraction to bowl him over, ass over face, running off before he manages to get his bearings.

Kira flops down at Stiles’ side, yanking him down on his back. “Cuddle with me.”

“Okay, bossy.” He shivers, the ground cold even through his coat, and Kira curls in closer. A moment later, Scott flops down with half of his body on his belly.

“ _Oof._ Hey buddy,” Stiles says, scratching at his fur. The rest of the pack follows suit, each of them managing to drape a leg or paw over Stiles in the name of keeping the human warm. Derek lies down at his feet, head up, eyes open and alert. Watching over his pack.

“My own furry blanket,” Stiles mumbles into Kira’s hair. She snorts. Someone nudges at his foot, but he’s too comfortable and sleepy to look.

He wakes up disoriented an indeterminable amount of time later. The sounds of other people still in the park tell him he hasn’t been asleep long. He shivers, cold without his werewolf blankets.

Derek shakes his shoulder with a human hand. “Stiles,” he says, eyes intense and focused and very, very close. He’s barefoot, wearing just his jeans and no shirt.

“Derek?” Stiles sits up, allowing Derek to tug him to his feet. “What’s wrong?”

Derek’s grip tightens. Stiles follows, bemused as Derek pulls him out from the shadows of the tree, directly under the light of the full moon. The muscles in his chest flex as he takes a deep breath. His eyes flood with red, and Stiles stares, hypnotized. He takes both of Stiles’ hands carefully in his own, eyes never leaving Stiles’ face.

“I want you to be my emissary,” he says quietly, and Stiles’ eyes widen. Derek’s hands tremble. “Will you?”

“Yes,” Stiles answers, without hesitation. He twines their fingers together, and the touch alone makes Stiles’ heart race.

Their bond flickers to life, a slow burn that starts behind his sternum and rolls out to their joined fingers, down to his toes. Stiles inhales sharp and shocked at the sharp burn of his skin, shoving up his coat sleeve without letting go of Derek’s other hand. Between the lines of the winding fox’s tail on Stiles’ forearm is a perfect triskele.

Stiles shoves at Derek’s shoulder, skating trembling fingers over the space between the lines of Derek’s tattoo. Derek shivers.

Stiles yanks his phone out of his pocket, taking a quick picture before he walks back around to Derek’s front. He smiles as he holds up the screen, a bittersweet thing.

Derek looks at the picture, breath catching. He cups the phone between his palms. They’re attracting a crowd now, drawn to the magic Stiles has been throwing around. Scott’s joy filters through, loud and clear like the rest of Derek’s pack – _his_ pack. Their howls echo through the night air, warm and bright and comforting. A smattering of applause breaks out, other howls joining the chorus.

Stiles pays them no attention as Derek traces the lines of Stiles’ mark on the screen with his finger, burned into the skin of his back for the rest of the world to see. He glances up at Stiles and smiles.

At the center of the triskele is a blue and red hummingbird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's followed me on this long, wild ride, whether you've been here since the beginning, or just started reading today. I appreciate every single kudos, comment, and rec, more than you know. A special thank you to badwolfbadwolf for prompting me in the first place. I am so sorry it took so long to get here.
> 
> For anyone who is interested, I am already working on the sequel, working title “I'm Looking for a Place to Land.” I also have plans for some "missing scenes" from other POVs. There may be a bit of a delay, as I need to focus on school for a while. If you like, please subscribe to the series so you know when I start posting :)
> 
> In the meantime, have a summary of the sequel:
> 
> _Derek only had two real relationships after Kate, and none with guys, just one night stands or short flings masquerading as something more._
> 
> _“You’re doing just fine, big guy,” Stiles says, and Derek groans while Stiles laughs into his mouth._
> 
>  
> 
> \--
> 
> Stiles and Derek try to figure out what being alpha and emissary mean for their pack, while also navigating a budding relationship. When Cora moves back to New York with her girlfriend, Derek's past comes back to bite him in the ass - Lydia's best friend turns out to be Allison Argent, and Stiles' father takes a job as the new sheriff of Beacon Hills.


End file.
